


Debutante

by TheCakeConundrum (orphan_account)



Series: A Formal Event [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, Humor, I Don't Even Know, Strong Language, Tags May Change, The Author Regrets Everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-04 19:19:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 31,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1790302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/TheCakeConundrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a Westeros very much like the modern world, Robert Baratheon is holding a party. A masquerade ball, much to Sansa's joy. And Arya's horror.</p>
<p>An awkward reunion threatens to ruin the night for Sansa, until a mysterious man intervenes. Meanwhile, Arya has no intentions of enjoying herself, but a kindred spirit might just make things interesting...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preparations

[SANSA’S POV] 

Sansa Stark looked at the dress for what had to be the nineteenth time in ten minutes. It was draped over the back of the chair, plum-coloured material falling to kiss the floor. Beyond the door of her room, she could hear her sister complaining.

“But why do _I_ have to go?” Arya whined loudly, as she had all day. Her question was met by their mother’s sigh  
.  
“You’re going, Arya, because you were invited. All of us are going, except Bran and Rickon. Old Nan is minding them while we’re out.” Catelyn sounded weary, and Sansa couldn’t help but sympathise. All the talk of that night’s party, hosted by her father’s oldest friend, was beginning to exhaust even her. She normally liked parties, formal ones especially, but she dreaded the company that would be sure to attend.

Robert Baratheon was notorious for hosting lavish parties, under the guise of ‘charity events’. The one taking place that very evening was to raise money for a building programme in Flea Bottom, but Sansa knew perfectly well it was just an excuse for Mr Baratheon’s wife to show off her Red Manor to the elite of Westeros. _I never liked that woman. Neither does Father._ When Ned Stark had opened an expensive-looking envelope a few weeks ago at dinner, Sansa had been most surprised to find that she, Arya and Robb had been invited to attend the gala. Robb had sighed in annoyance, but was wise enough not to protest in his mother’s hearing. Arya, on the other hand, looked ready to throw her plate at the wall. She certainly does hate parties, Sansa reflected as she continued applying mascara in the mirror. 

At nineteen years old, Sansa had attended her fair share of events, though never one this big. Even the _King’s Landing Crier_ was raving about it, or so Jeyne Poole had texted her. With her long auburn hair and bright blue eyes, Sansa had often been called beautiful, but it was some comfort to know that her face wouldn’t be under as much scrutiny. That was the catch.

“Sansa, are you almost done?” Her mother called from the hallway outside, startling her. Panicking as she realised she still wasn’t dressed, Sansa threw the mascara brush onto the dressing table with some force before turning and fumbling with her dress, trying to find the zip. “Almost,” she called back, hoping she didn’t sound too breathless.

If Catelyn Stark heard her daughter’s worry, she did not comment on it. Sansa heard her mother pacing away from the door, most likely in search of Arya. _Why does that girl have to make such a fuss about everything?_ , she wondered to herself as she slipped into the purple dress, pulling it up her legs with difficulty. _It’s not like I want to go either. Well, not really..._

It wasn’t the prospect of the party that bothered her, or even the fact that the most notable names in Westeros would be there. It was the idea of seeing _him_ again. Joffrey. The little golden prince, who could do no wrong in his mother’s eyes but was a constant embarrassment to his father, as Ned had learned. 

Glancing in the mirror, Sansa saw that she was blushing. The last time she had seen Joffrey Baratheon, she had been eleven years old, young and silly. He had come to visit them in Winterfell with his family, and Sansa had convinced herself she was madly in love with him. _Eugh. How was I so stupid?_ She had since realised her folly, though the memory was made worse by the rumours she had heard through her school years. Apparently, the little rich boy had no intentions of making his parents proud, and had quite the horrid reputation.

“Sansa, hurry!” Her mother called shrilly from beyond the door, just as she had managed the side zip. “Your father will have a fit if we’re late...”

She had just enough time to catch a glimpse of her reflection. She looked nice, she concluded, the dress clinging flatteringly to her slim frame, her red hair tied into a messy bun. She grabbed her purse from the table and headed for the door, only to retrace her steps with a cry of frustration.

The mask lay beside her hairbrush, a dainty object of plum purple silk and silver lining. _A masked ball, of all things. It’s like something from a story. Arya will be seething._

Tying the mask carefully behind her hair, she was ready. _Maybe now Joffrey won’t recognise me, and I’ll be spared awkward conversation. I might even enjoy tonight._ It was all she could hope for as she rushed out of the house, to the waiting car and the unknown evening ahead.

 

[SANDOR’S POV]

His eyes found the bar first, stood in the corner of the vast ballroom like a tempting oasis of oblivion amid the tedium of the party. Sandor wanted to make a beeline for it, momentarily forgetting himself. He was head of the Baratheon’s household security, and he had a task to perform.

The night would be long, tiresome, and undoubtedly frustrating. Already, Mr Baratheon himself could be heard shouting over the babble of the crowd of guests, seemingly less than sober, though the party had only just begun. _Lucky bastard. At least he’s getting a drink tonight_ , Sandor reflected bitterly, though his face remained passive. 

The mask was beginning to itch, and he was desperate to scratch his nose, but he kept his arms behind his back, standing beside the door like a good security guard ought. The mask was a strange one, black material that disguised his entire face bar his mouth and unburnt cheek. Cersei had insisted even the staff wore masks, and she’d had Sandor’s made to order. _No doubt to prevent me scaring the guests._

Mrs Baratheon herself had just entered the room from the door beside him, golden hair flowing freely down her back, her black gown slashed high up one thigh. A small gaggle of simpering friends surrounded her, spewing empty compliments about the garment she wore. 

“What, this old thing?” Cersei asked, in a voice so dripping with false modesty that Sandor felt his mouth twitch. “I found it just last night. Though, I must say, it hides a multitude of sins.”

Sandor watched them all laughing from the corner of his grey eyes. Cersei’s eyes seemed even more green surrounded by the black mask, and he could see the disdain behind them. He had learned to read people very early on. 

_From what I hear,_ Sandor thought silently, not letting his face betray any hint of emotion, _you’d need a bloody marquee to hide your sins, you poisonous bitch._ As a Lannister by birth, Cersei belonged to another of the richest and most reputed families in Westeros, though they were a lot more shady than the Baratheons. Her father, Tywin, was a ruthless businessman, and rumour had it that his ties were somewhat dubious in nature. _Don’t I know that. They hired Gregor, after all._ But then, Sandor supposed, he was no saint either.

“There you are, Dog.” 

Sandor’s eyes turned in the direction the observation had come from, and he saw Joffrey approaching, clad in a suit that seemed too big for him. _You may act the big man_ , Sandor growled in his head, _but you’re still the little boy who throws tantrums when he doesn’t have his way, and is shit scared of thunderstorms. And I could break that smug smile off your fucking face._

Instead, Sandor only nodded at him. “Sir.” 

Joffrey regarded him with a sideways smirk. “Aren’t you enjoying the party? Father said you were to have the night off.”

Sandor felt his shoulders tense. _Oh, yes, a night off for a five-hour-long party where no one will speak to me and the drinks are never free. Bugger that._ “Me, Trant and Oakheart have a break rota. Mine’s in an hour or so.” _And will be spent at the bar, far away from you, you little shit._

The blonde boy nodded. “When you’re free, I’ll introduce you to Margaery. I was telling her about your face, but she didn’t believe me. I said if I could prove her wrong, she’d have to do whatever I wanted.” A slimy grin spread across Joffrey’s face at that, and Sandor could guess what he had in mind. _Gods. He’ll show her my face and she’ll show him her cunt._

Any further need for a reply was interrupted by another group of people entering the party, bringing the smell of the cold air outside with them. Sandor recognised the grizzled hair and solemn countenance of Ned Stark, one of Mr Baratheon’s greatest friends, and another important face in Westeros. Unlike Tywin Lannister, or even Robert Baratheon himself, Stark was known to be goodhearted, a noted philanthropist as well as a political advisor. _A bloody strange mix, if you ask me._

The others, he supposed, were Stark’s family; a redheaded woman on his arm, a tall young man with her eyes beneath his mask, a girl with Ned’s long features. And, trailing behind them all, draped in purple, a young woman with hair that blazed like fire.

Sandor knew he shouldn’t be staring, but something about the girl had caught his eye. He watched her follow her family down the steps into the well of the ballroom floor, making toward Mr Baratheon, who was now quite drunk. Her walk was graceful, as sharp a contrast to her sister’s careless slouch as could be possible. 

_A striking girl_ , he thought numbly, while beside him Joffrey had disappeared. She seemed to feel someone’s gaze on her, however, for she turned, looking around the room with eyes of brightest blue, framed in purple and silver. _And a beauty at that, bugger me_.

Her eyes never met his, and he was glad. The night would be frustrating enough without scaring every pretty girl in the room half to death with his staring. He looked away briefly, telling himself to focus. He was in for a long evening.

_But if the view tonight is as good as her, it might not be so bad after all._


	2. Collisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya's clumsiness makes her an unlikely acquaintance. Meanwhile, Sansa is forced to face an uncomfortable situation- until she is helped out by a stranger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised two new POV's in this chapter... But I lied. Sorry!
> 
> Instead, here's one new POV, and one from the previous chapter. Enjoy! *runs away cackling like a madwoman*

[ARYA’S POV]

If there was anything Arya hated more than parties, it was when she had to wear heels to attend them. She looked down at her impractical black shoes, fighting the strong urge to throw them across the room.

She had protested, as she always did, but her mother wouldn’t hear a word of it, throwing a brand new outfit at Arya and telling her to put it on. The look in Catelyn’s eye was formidable, and she had done as she was told for once. 

_This is so stupid._ There she was, standing in the middle of a crowd of painted peacocks, each donned in a mask more ridiculous than the last. _It’s like something out of those fairy stories Sansa always loved. Except less mushy._

She had a mask of her own, the same shade of silver as her knee-length dress, and edged with black lace. Her short hair was as neat as it was ever going to get, and the occasional passer-by noticed the scuffs and bruises on her legs, evidence of her hobby of fencing. Arya merely scowled at them, and they soon looked away. 

Now, though, she considered finding her parents. _It can’t be more boring than standing here alone._ Maybe she could find Robb, dare him to do something hilarious. But she had last seen her brother wading off into a crowd of pretty women, a stupid smile on his face, and she knew it was the last she’d see of him for hours. _Boys really are idiots._

Even Sansa would be welcome company, though Arya couldn’t help but feel she’d make a poor shadow of her older sister. Sansa was doing what Sansa did best; being pretty and graceful and polite, and making it look easy. It was almost sickening. But Arya couldn’t find her, either.

Resolving to ascend the small staircase that led down to the ballroom floor, Arya elbowed her way through the crowd, stepping on the occasional toe and not caring in the slightest. 

On the last stair, however, she lost balance, stumbling forward in her heels. She closed her eyes an waited for the impact of the floor, but it never came. Instead, she felt herself collide with something vertical, and heard a deafening _clatter_ as something fell at her feet.

“Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me-“

She opened her eyes at the cursing, only to find that she’d tripped headlong into a passing waiter, knocking the plate of crudités he had been carrying onto the floor. The people nearby gave the two of them glances of annoyance, before turning away. Arya was about to mumble an apology when the waiter turned to her, eyes narrowed. 

“Maybe next time you can look where you’re going.” He snapped at her. The words died in her mouth, to be replaced with furious ones. 

“ _Me_?” She repeated, incredulous. “Why don’t _you_ watch where you’re going? If you’d been looking, you would have seen me fall.”

The young man opened his mouth at that to protest, but closed it again with a shake of his head. He was taller than Arya, with short dark hair and blue eyes beneath a black half-mask. Bending to clean up what remained of the food, he seemed disheartened. She almost felt sorry for careening into him.

_Almost._

Dropping to her knees, Arya helped him throw the ruined crudités onto the serving plate, getting pâté all over her hands. _Disgusting._ Arya smiled at the thought.

“You don’t have to help.” The young waiter mumbled at her, keeping his eyes to the floor. Arya scoffed at that, standing when he did.

“I wasn’t helping, you stupid.” She replied, wiping her hands on a spotless tablecloth nearby. “If my parents heard the noise, I didn’t want them to see me.”

He laughed a little at that, despite himself. “Well, we couldn’t have that, could we?” He gave her a sideways glance with those blue eyes, and half-smiled. “My apologies for my... _oversight_ , Miss, but I should probably go to get a new tray.”

She rolled her eyes at the title. “My name’s Arya, not Miss. And I’ll come with you.”

The waiter frowned at that, stepping backwards a little. “What are you talking about? You can’t come into the kitchen.”

 _He’s telling me that I can’t do something. That gives me every reason to do it._ “Of course I can. I’m a guest here, and the invite never said ‘Don’t come into the bloody kitchen’. Besides, I’m completely bored. You can’t stop me.” Arya folded her arms at that, defiant, until the young man finally heaved a sigh.

“Fine.” He breathed, though his tone made it sound less than fine. “Just don’t go getting caught, will you? The last thing I need is for Mrs Baratheon to decide she doesn’t want to pay up.”

Tray in hand, the waiter made for the door, Arya hot on his heels whilst trying not to trip again. “What’s your name, anyway?” She asked, noting the way he kept his eyes straight ahead, strong jaw set in determination. _He’s angry I’m following him,_ Arya knew, but that only made her want to annoy him more.

“Gendry.” He replied, monotonously. He pushed the door open with one hand, carefully manoeuvring the silver tray around the panel.

Arya turned for a moment, surveying the ballroom with a sharp glance. Robb was nowhere to be found, but she could see her father at the far side of the room, laughing at something a drunken Robert Baratheon had told him.

Down near the buffet table, a flash of purple caught Arya’s eye, and she saw Sansa helping herself to some sort of dessert. _Lemoncakes, most likely._ It annoyed her that her sister could eat so many of them, yet remain so slim. Arya was skinny too, but in all the wrong places, it seemed.

“You coming?” 

Gendry was holding the door open for her with his free hand, she realised suddenly. The tall masked guard the other side of the door was beginning to look annoyed, fixing her with a cold grey-eyed stare. _Better keep moving._

With a small grin, she ran after Gendry, leaving all thought of the party behind.

 

[SANSA’S POV]

They cornered her at the dessert table. Sansa had just been helping herself to a lemoncake or five, when she’d felt a hand on her shoulder. Startled, she had turned around- and nearly groaned in horror.

Joffrey Baratheon looked much like he did at twelve years old; the same puffy worm-lips, golden hair falling into a pair of small green eyes that glittered maliciously, even in the warm light of the ballroom. He wore a black suit and a dark red tie, and had donned a red mask with gold lining. Even so, it was unmistakeably him, and Sansa wanted to sink into the floor.

I know you.” He stated simply, in a whiny voice that made her want to flinch. _Recognised at a masked ball._ She pondered bitterly. _Isn’t that beside the point?_

“Do you?” Sansa asked with a polite smile, feigning ignorance. The young man didn’t seem convinced, however, and smirked at her.

“You’re Sansa Stark. We met when we were younger.” When she did not reply, Joffrey seemed to grit his teeth. “I’m _Joffrey Baratheon._ ”

He seemed very annoyed that Sansa did not immediately remember him, and so the smile that graced her features then was one of genuine amusement. “Oh, of course! It’s so nice to see you again, Joffrey.”

Joffrey was silent for a moment, pride clearly wounded. _Of course the golden prince would expect everyone to remember him._ Then he turned his head to someone in the crowd nearby. “Margaery!” He called, loudly enough for the whole ballroom to hear. Sansa flinched. _It sounds like he’s calling a dog._

Margaery was not in fact a dog, but a young woman. She seemed perhaps a year older than Joffrey, and had long brown hair falling almost to her waist. Margaery approached, blinking brown doe-eyes at them both from beneath a turquoise mask and flashing a soft smile. 

“Margaery, this is Sansa.” Joffrey announced when she stepped over to them, the smirk returning to his worm-lips. “Sansa, this is Margaery Tyrell. My girlfriend. Perhaps you’ve heard of her?”

Sansa had indeed heard of Margaery Tyrell, mainly from people she’d known at school. The young woman had a rather colourful reputation, one that Sansa tried to put to the back of her mind as she smiled at Margaery. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

Before Margaery could reply, Joffrey had taken the reins of the conversation, steering them into what Sansa could only guess to be territory best avoided.

“Margaery, Sansa here used to be madly in love with me. Didn’t you, Sansa?”

He was speaking loudly enough for everyone standing nearby to hear, and Sansa felt herself blushing furiously underneath the mask. _Joffrey certainly enjoys a crowd when he’s humiliating someone_ , she thought as she tried to remain composed.

“I... I guess I was quite fond of you.” She offered with a small smile, knowing it would never be enough to satisfy Joffrey, that it wasn’t quite what he wanted her to say. Even so, she refused to adhere to him. “But that was a long time ago, wasn’t it? It’s been such a long time since I’ve seen you, or your parents-“

Joffrey rolled his green eyes. “Really, Sansa, it hasn’t been that long. I still remember my visit to Winterfell very well. You used to follow me round and tell me how handsome I was, and how much you wished you lived in King’s Landing so you could see me every day. Didn’t you?”

Beside him, Margaery seemed aware that Joffrey was doing his utmost to embarrass Sansa, and tried to interrupt. “Joffrey, have you met my brother Willas yet? He’s just got back from a business trip to Braavos. He got drunk one night, and has a tattoo of something you wouldn’t _believe_ -“

“Not now, Margaery.” Joffrey snapped, still not taking his eyes from Sansa. She was acutely aware of his green eyes dragging down her frame, as though he was eating her with his eyes. The thought made her want to shudder, but she managed to suppress it, taking a bite of lemoncake to try and distract herself.

The rebuff did not seem to anger Margaery, but she sensed the anger in Joffrey’s voice and ventured back to the laughing crowd she had left with nothing but an apologetic smile at Sansa. Now she was stranded with Joffrey, an embarrassing memory made flesh.

“You know, Mother wouldn’t approve of me leaving you all by yourself tonight.” He told her, taking a little step closer and lowering his voice. Sansa doubted very much that Cersei would care about her in the slightest, but she dared not voice that opinion. “We could catch up, you and I. Like you said, it’s been so long. Things have certainly changed.”

She could tell where Joffrey’s eyes were lingering at that, and she fiddled nervously with the soft skirt of her dress. Sansa tried to think of a polite way to decline, all the while fighting the instinct to vomit over his shoes.

“I-“

Just then, Joffrey’s eyes moved from her chest to follow something over her shoulder. Sansa was aware of it too- or, rather, _them_ , for she knew it was another person.

“Might I interrupt?” A harsh voice rasped, like metal on stone. It was sheer relief to Sansa compared to Joffrey’s simpering tone, and she almost grinned at the sight of the golden-haired boy’s annoyance.

“No, you may _not_.” Joffrey retorted through his teeth. “Can’t you see I’m speaking to someone?”

 _Apparently my name is ‘someone’ now,_ Sansa reflected, trying not to laugh. _I had better alert my parents._

“Well, I give my apologies to the lady.” The low voice said, and in that moment Sansa turned to follow it. 

She almost gasped when she found herself looking up... and up... to look the tallest man she’d ever seen in the eye. He was clad in a black suit, and a dark mask covered most of his face, but Sansa was aware of a pair of grey eyes looking back at her from its midst. The stranger’s dark hair fell to his chin, and she noticed how its rugged appearance contrasted with the sharpness of the attire.

He held her eye for a moment, before looking back at Joffrey. “Wasn’t there someone you needed me to speak to?” The huge man asked, and Sansa watched Joffrey scowl like a sullen child.

“It could have waited until later, _dog_.” He muttered. Sansa was shocked- had he truly just called such an intimidating man _”dog”_? She found herself staring at him in incredulous silence, the half-eaten lemoncake in her hand quite forgotten.

The corner of the stranger’s mouth twitched at that. “Again, apologies, but it could not wait.”

With a small sigh of exasperation, Joffrey turned from Sansa, looking about the room for someone. “Margaery!” He called shrilly, but his frustrating voice was drowned out almost immediately by the sound of music beginning to play from the orchestra situated at the far end of the ballroom. Sansa had to swallow another laugh at the sight of Joffrey’s shouting; he was growing as red as his mask.

“I’ll go and get her myself.” Joffrey snapped, more to himself than to Sansa or the stranger beside her, and he began to worm his way through the crowd, away from them.

Sansa almost jumped out of her skin as she felt a large hand on her shoulder, and her head jerked up to look at the tall man. He seemed to be giving her a half-smile, though beneath the mask it was difficult to tell.

“We should move, before he gets back.” The deep rasping voice told her, and she stood silent for a few moments, failing to understand. _Who is this man, and what is he talking about?_

“...I’m sorry?” Sansa felt stupid for saying it, but she had no idea what was happening. The man rolled his grey eyes in exasperation.

“I’m saving you from having to listen to Joffrey all night, girl. This night will be tedious enough without that little prick’s company, I can tell you.”

She felt herself suck in a breath at the curse word, but she couldn’t help but feel grateful for the man’s sentiments. _He clearly likes Joffrey less than I do. He’s trying to help me._

Looking over her head, the stranger gave a low growl of disapproval. “Hmph. He’s coming back.” Suddenly, the grey eyes were back to her face, their intensity unnerving but fascinating all at once. “What say you, little lady? Shall we make our escape?”

He held out his huge arm. Sansa looked at it for a moment, weighing the situation in her mind. _A night spent unable to get away from Joffrey, or the company of an uncouth and very imposing stranger._

“Little lady?” She repeated, surprised. _I am nineteen years old,_ she thought. _That's hardly little- I’m a woman grown._ But then she suspected he might have been referring to his large stature. A little smile spread onto her face, and she looked behind, wary of Joffrey, but he had not spotted them yet. _Escaping sounds pretty good right now._

She took his arm, and they disappeared into the crowd.


	3. Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry doesn't approve of Arya's meddling, and Sandor buys the 'little lady' a drink.

[GENDRY’S POV]

He tried to ignore the sound the girl was making, staring intently at the crudités he was arranging onto a tray, but it was growing difficult. Arya, if he remembered her name right, was sitting on the unblemished marble countertop of the Baratheon’s cavernous kitchen, babbling on at him while kicking her high heels against the cupboard below. Gendry winced, already seeing the scratch marks beginning to appear on the expensive wood.

“Will you get down from there?” He asked her, exasperated. Rolling her grey eyes, Arya lowered herself from the countertop, still talking about something he couldn’t care less for. _Can’t she see I’m busy?_

Between his own flustered thoughts, Gendry caught snippets of the girl’s monologue. She could only have been seventeen at the most, younger than him, and yet she wasn’t shy in the least. 

“ _Waters Catering_ ” he heard her read from the words emblazoned on his black shirt. “Is it your company?”

He laughed at that, settling the silver tray comfortably on his arm, the way he’d learned over the years. “No. It’s my mother’s company, she’s the best cook I know.”

Turning to walk back out of the kitchen and into the ballroom, Gendry quickened his pace to long sure strides he felt sure Arya would not match, with her short legs and high shoes. But catch him she did, much to his dismay, hurrying along beside him through the darkened corridor. “How did you get the job tonight, then? Do you often cater for the Baratheons?”

_She asks a hell of a lot of questions._ “No. I’d heard of the Baratheons, of course, everyone has, but they’ve never hired us before. My mother just said that Robert Baratheon owed her a favour.”

Arya’s dark brows raised at that, almost meeting the hairline of her short locks. “That sounds onminous.” She observed, pushing the door of the huge reception room open for Gendry as he passed through, laden with the food. The space seemed even bigger than he’d last remembered it, gilded chandeliers glinting impressively from vaulted ceilings, and for a moment he was silent. Arya, on the other hand, did not seem to have an off-switch.

“If your mother owes Mr Baratheon a favour, does that mean she’s involved in some sort of organised crime society?” The girl’s eyes almost glittered at the prospect, and Gendry had to stifle a laugh, carefully pressing through the guests as many pulled morsels from the trays, hungrily.

“My mother? I highly doubt it. She can’t hide much from me, since it’s just the two of us, and I think I’d notice if she was in a criminal gang.”

“Oh, it’s just you and your mum?” Arya asked, still hounding him through the crowd, the click-click of her high heels constant. “That must be nice. I have _three_ brothers, Robb and Bran and Rickon. _And_ I have a sister, Sansa.” He heard the footsteps stop, and, without understanding why, Gendry stopped with them, following her gaze to where it fell on the bar.

“That’s her over there.” She nodded her head at a young woman dressed in purple, auburn hair pulled up from her neck in a messy bun. There was little resemblance between the sisters, and, though Gendry could tell Sansa must be beautiful, she didn’t interest him as much as pretty girls usually did. _It’s her stupid sister’s fault, with all her talking._ Arya continued talking, unaware of his soliloquy. “I don’t know that tall man next to her, though. Is he buying her a drink?”

Arya’s tone had fallen, suddenly wary, and Gendry felt a sudden disappointment. He liked the girl’s usual playful tone, and this change in mood unsettled him slightly. _What the hell?_ he wondered to himself. _I met the girl all of half an hour ago, and I’m already caring about her bloody feelings. Fucking brilliant._

His gaze zoned in on the man talking to Sansa, took in his huge stature, his dark hair, the black mask covering almost the entirety of his face. _That’s familiar, at least._ Gendry didn’t know him, but he’d found something that might cheer Arya up.

“I don’t know if he’s buying her a drink.” He mused, shifting the tray to his other arm, easing the ache. “He might just be trying to drag her to his underground lair, and write her an opera.”

A sudden snort of laughter told him he’d been right on the money with that little joke, and Gendry felt the corners of his mouth curl up in a responding smile.

“You’re funny,” Arya mused, once the laughter had abated, “even though you’re a terrible waiter. Come on, we’ll find Robb, I think he’ll like you.”

She grabbed his forearm, all but dragging him across the room in her wake. _Terrible waiter?_ His mind repeated, indignant. _She has a cheek, the clumsy bitch._ Stilll, mention of Robb, who he recalled to be one of her many brothers, made an odd thought run through his mind, bewildering him momentarily.

_Am I seriously caring what her family thinks of me?_

[SANDOR’S POV]

Sandor had led her towards the bar, finally able to enjoy himself the best way he knew how- alcohol. He leaned against the countertop, while beside him the beautiful redhead tentatively lowered herself on a plush stool. _Fuck me, she even does that prettily._

“What’s your poison, little lady?” He rasped at her, noting the way she looked up at him, blue gaze skimming over him lightly, as though shy of his reaction. 

“I... My what?” Her voice was silken, innocent. Sandor almost laughed at the sound of it, but he felt she would think him a madman. 

“Your poison, girl.” He repeated, gravelled voice enunciating the words. “What would you like to drink?”

The pretty thing had gasped a little at that, shocked. _What did she think we came to the bar for?_ “Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t drink.”

He scoffed at that, an ugly sound from the back of his throat. “Well, now’s as good a time as any to _learn_.”

A soft flush of pink ran into her cheeks, kissing them lightly with colour. “Um... alright.” She concluded, with an uncertain smile. “What would you recommend?”

_I could recommend a lot of things for you to do, lovely girl._ He thought smugly as the barman reached them. _How you’d blush if I told you._

Dragging his gaze reluctantly from the young woman beside him, Sandor ordered a scotch for himself, and a glass of champagne for the lady. _That’s a drink she’ll have had before, I don’t doubt. The Starks have enough bloody money, and she’s clearly one of them._ Though, in truth, he couldn’t see much of Mr Eddard Stark in the girl’s features- she had none of his Northern solemnity, nor his dark hair or eyes. He was silently grateful for that, watching her from the corner of his eye.

She seemed to be nervously peeking around the room, and a small wave of irritation hit Sandor then. _Is she trying to look for someone else to run to?_ All he’d wanted was to buy her a drink, the way he always saw men do for women that caught their attention. He’d thought, with his scars hidden from her, that it might not be such a bad prospect on her part either.

“Something interesting you over there, little lady?” Sandor couldn’t think what else to call her; ‘Miss Stark’ would just be creepy and premature, while ‘girl’ seemed a little too harsh. _Bloody hells, I’m getting soft._ Since he didn’t know her first name, and she had not offered it, she’d have to be content with being referred to as ‘little lady’.

The blue eyes met his, startled by the question, and more than a little embarrassed. “Oh, no, no- I was just looking...”

Her voice trailed off, only increasing the anger building in his veins. “Looking for what? The exit door?” He barked a bitter laugh, gulping at the scotch the barman had handed him while she looked on in utter shock. “Am I such awful company?”

The little wavering hands ran over her purple skirts, smoothing them down in a nervous habit. “No, please. All I meant was I was looking for Joffrey.” Her voice was beginning to hasten, as though she were afraid the young man were standing right behind her. “I mean, please don’t think me rude-“

He barely heard the rest of her stammering. Her eyes were honest, that much was for certain, and it wasn’t him she was wary of. _What’s she so scared of? That little blonde shit won’t dare leave the doe-eyed slut he’s intent on fucking tonight, even for someone as lovely as this little lady._ Sandor was all to aware of her hands unconsciously on the skirt of her dress, smoothing it out against her thighs, enough to hint at her petite figure beneath the clothing. All coherent thought seemed to fade. _Gods, I’m a dirty dog indeed._

“Thank you for the drink, though.” He heard her mutter, eyes falling to the glass of champagne in her dainty hands.

_Don’t thank me, girl. I’ll be sure enough to make Robert Baratheon pay my tab later on tonight, when he’s blind drunk and beyond caring._ But instead, he only gave a shrug of nonchalance. 

“Anyone who’s had to sit through a conversation with Joffrey deserves a drink.” He muttered, taking another sip from his own short glass. “Hells, they need a bloody medal.” 

The little lady laughed at that, giggling into her flute of champagne. It sounded like music. “That’s very true.” She admitted, though it seemed a reluctant one. _She doesn’t like to offend, this one. Even slimy pricks like Joffrey._ It seemed incredulous to Sandor, who said what he thought when he was asked, or not. “Tell me, sir-" 

He grunted at that, displeased. “I’m no _sir_.” 

Her face fell momentarily, and he could have cursed himself aloud. It soon brightened again though, for she smiled. “If I can’t call you ‘sir’, what shall I call you? You haven’t told me your name.” 

Sandor smiled a little at that. “Nor have you.” 

That stumped her, and the young woman pouted, full lips made even more enticing to him. _Concentrate, dog._ “I haven’t, have I?” Something in the blue eyes sparkled, beyond the mask. “Maybe I won’t tell you my name.” 

_Well, I know it must be something Stark._ But he let the little lady continue, enjoying the effect her words were having on her mannerisms. She had grown a little bolder in that moment, facing him more abruptly on her stool, teeth worrying her lips slightly. The sight made his blood race. 

“This is a masked ball, after all.” She continued, tone becoming almost playful. “And masked balls allow for secrets, don’t they?”  
 _She’s read too many romance novels_ Sandor thought, yet unable to control the grin spreading across his mouth. 

“Well, for all your happy chirping, you forget that _I_ might not want to tell you my name either.” He was enjoying this, he realised, pretending to be someone else. Perhaps a little too much. 

“Chirping?” The redhead repeated, affronted. 

“Chirping. Like a little bird.” An idea sparked in his mind, teasing. “And, since you’ll not give me your name, little lady, that’s what I’ll call you. Little Bird.” 

Her mouth opened in a slight ‘O’ of indignation, but snapped shut again, reflective. “I... I suppose Little Bird is alright.” She took a sip of champagne, brow furrowing at the taste. He chuckled darkly, and even she smiled. “But now I should find something to call you.” 

_Call me yours, Little Bird._

The thought shocked him, and he silenced it immediately. His face remained passive, however, as he looked at her. 

“Keep your titles, Little Bird.” He told her with a wink that left her blushing. “And I’ll keep my secrets.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, so many ideas, so little time. Did you find the nice little Phantom reference I left for you? Well, I did, so I suppose you'll have to suck it up ;-)
> 
> Note: I am aware (due to some critical analysis from my sister) that I have incorporated some local details in this chapter that might need clarification. Sansa is 19 in this story, which makes her legally able to drink where I live, but I know it's different depending on where you live. So apologies for that, and forgive my oversight :-)
> 
> Comments are much appreciated! I'm not sure if this story is going well or not, so feedback will be invaluable. Thank you"


	4. Disapproval

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya's new friends aren't approved by everyone, and Sansa's mysterious companion continues to surprise.

[ARYA’S POV]

Robb was sitting on a plush couch aligned at the side of the huge room, surrounded by a gaggle of young women. They were laughing at something he had said, and Arya couldn’t help but wonder if it was forced. _Robb’s not that hilarious._

She had started towards him, still dragging Gendry by the cuff of his shirt, but the young man had halted sharply, strong enough to root himself to the spot. Arya turned to him, scowling.

“What are you doing, stupid?” She demanded, looking up at him. “Robb’s right there, let’s go talk to him. He must be bored.”

Gendry smirked at her in disbelief, his gaze shifting to her brother and back to her face. “Trust me, Arya, he’s not bored. You don’t want to interrupt him right now, he won’t thank you for it.”

_What in seven hells is he on about?_ Sometimes, Arya thought to herself exasperatedly, boys were as tiresome to talk to as girls. “What do you mean? He’s my brother, of course he’ll want to talk to me.”

Shaking his head slightly, Gendry linked a hand around her wrist and gently pulled her away from Robb and his new acquaintances. Arya was a little surprised at the contact, but she hid it well. Gendry was saying something to her, she realised, but the orchestra began another song on the far end of the room, drowning out most of his muttering. She only caught snippets of what he was saying; he mentioned “my friends” and “away” and “your brother”, and something that sounded suspiciously like _“cockblocking”_ , but Arya was sure she must have misheard that one.

“ _What are you saying?_ ” Arya asked him, loud enough that he could hear. Gendry looked at her, huffed a sigh, and reiterated.

“I said, we should go and find my friends. It’s better if we get away from your brother, by the looks of it he’s busy enough and won’t want us... well...” Here the waiter looked almost sheepish. “Interrupting, shall we say.”

Arya set her jaw at that, but let him lead her through the crowd all the same, until they came upon another waiter in similar clothes. This boy, however, was heavily built, with dark hair and eyes. He smiled at Gendry’s approach, though the expression faltered at the sight of Arya.

“Oh... hello, Miss.” He muttered as they neared him. Arya rolled her eyes, about to correct him, but Gendry interrupted her.

“Hot Pie, this is Arya. Arya, this is Hot Pie. He works for the company too.” She felt Gendry’s gaze on her, unsure. “Arya here is... a friend.”

_Friend_ Arya’s mind repeated, a little bewildered. _Huh. I thought I annoyed him._ All the same, she was glad to have made one friend in the terrible company around them. She gave a small grin at Hot Pie.

“Why do they call you Hot Pie?” She asked him, not bothering with any of the polite formalities her mother taught her. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she could almost hear Sansa’s scandalized gasp, and she almost laughed aloud.

The boy faltered a moment, thinking. He looked to be of an age with her, a few years younger than Gendry, but his eyes were honest ones. Arya decided then and there that she liked Hot Pie, much as she had with Gendry. 

“Well... I like hot pies.” Hot Pie offered, and it was explanation enough. Gendry laughed.

“Eloquent as ever.” The older boy retorted with a sarcasm Arya enjoyed. “What do you say we get out of here for a bit and cause some mayhem? No one’s taken any crudités for a good half an hour, and everyone’s eating at the buffet table.”

Hot Pie nodded in relieved assent, and the two waiters headed off across the room. Undeterred, she followed them, barely keeping up in her high heels. _Seriously, if they don’t wait up for me, I’ll take these bloody shoes off and shove them right up their-_

A hand clamped around her forearm, not enough to hurt her but causing Arya to hurtle sideways and bump into the unknown individual with a suppressed gasp. She looked up, ready to kick whoever it was in the shins if need be, but her foot stopped dead at the sight of the man’s face.

“Father!” She exclaimed, surprised. The last she had seen of him, he had been laughing uncomfortably at one of Robert Baratheon’s bawdy jokes. Ned Stark disliked the pomp and circumstance of it all as much as his younger daughter.

“Arya.” He replied curtly, without a hint of a smile. “Who were those two you were with? I hope you’re not distracting them from their work.”

Arya felt herself frown at her father’s solemn demeanour. With her, he was usually good natured. Looking over her shoulder, she was surprised (and rather disappointed) that Gendry and Hot Pie had disappeared among the masked faces of the guests, out of her sight.

“I wasn’t _distracting_ anyone.” She mumbled in reply, avoiding her father’s grey eyes. “They’re on a break, and they’re my friends.”

Ned sighed at that, disapproving. “You make friends too quickly, Arya. You only met those boys tonight.” His expression hardened somewhat at that, as did the grip on her arm. “Besides, aren’t you a little young to be hanging around with them?”

Arya narrowed her eyes behind her mask. “Hot Pie’s the same age as me, and Gendry’s only a bit older. You’re starting to sound just like Mother.”

Ned sighed. “Go and find your mother, Arya. Or better yet, find Sansa. She doesn’t know anyone here either, you two should stay together.” Here, her father’s voice lowered. “I want you to keep away from those boys. We don’t know them, they could be the wrong crowd. The taller one is far too old.”

Arya felt utterly confused, and more than a little angry. _What brought this lecture on?_ She wondered to herself. _It’s not like I was doing anything wrong. I was just making friends, not that he cares anyway. He’s been too busy talking to Mr Baratheon to notice._

She wrenched out of his grip, for the first time feeling a distance between herself and her father. “I’ll talk to whoever I want. I’m seventeen.”

The grey eyes found hers. “That’s what I have to keep reminding myself.”

Arya ignored that. “So, if you’ll _excuse_ me, I’m off to find Hot Pie and Gendry.” She turned on her heels, wobbling slightly, but looked over her shoulder at her father. “Oh, and if you think _they’re_ too old, you should see the guy Sansa’s been talking to all night.”

With that, she sauntered off, in search of her newfound conspirators and the mayhem they had promised.

[SANSA’S POV]

The mystery man took another sip of his drink, the second he’d ordered that night. Sansa couldn’t help but notice, in the little alcove overlooking the vast room where they sat, that his large hands were shaking slightly as he gripped the glass.

“Are you feeling alright?” She heard herself ask, unable to ignore such a reaction. “Your... your hands are shaking a little.”

The man laughed darkly into his scotch, smiling his crooked smile at her. “What’s the matter, Little Bird? Think I’m scared of pretty girls?” 

She felt her face warm a little at that. _An odd compliment, if it even is one._ Everything about the nameless individual who had rescued her from Joffrey’s tormenting seemed a little harsh to her, but, much to her confusion, Sansa felt herself drawn to it. In the dim light of the alcove, his masked face seemed to darken, as did the deep grey eyes. _A dark and mysterious stranger, buying me drinks and giving me strange looks._ Sansa felt sure her mother would have a heart attack at the very thought, and for some reason that made her situation all the more exciting.

“You didn’t answer my question.” She stated with a small pout, waiting for her answer. The man’s eyes darted from hers, down her nose, lingering on her lips. Sansa was aware of her face heating up even more at that.

“I didn’t.” The man agreed, with another languid sip of his drink. “But, as you rightly said earlier, masked balls allow for secrets.”

His tone was mocking, and for a moment Sansa felt incessantly stupid. Arya would have tortured her if she’d heard that comment, bringing up her older sister's foolish words at any opportune and embarrassing moment. _He thinks me silly. Everybody does._ Frustrated with herself, Sansa let her gaze drop to her shoes.

“Hey now, Little Bird.” Strong fingers gripped her chin gently, pulling it up so that she was looking the tall man in the eye. “No need to ruffle your feathers. I was only joking around.”

She pursed her lips at that, growing more ashamed every second. “I wasn’t-"

“Don’t lie.” The man rasped suddenly. His voice did not raise in volume, but the tone was a warning. “Not to me. I can smell a lie, Little Bird. You best believe that.”

There was a silence for a moment. _Who is this man, who is so sure of truth and lies?_ Sansa was beginning to find herself ever more intrigued, though she knew her curiosity was dangerous. _I might not like who I find behind that mask. He could be anyone._

“You can _smell_ a lie?” She repeated dubiously, allowing herself a raised brow. 

The man nodded solemnly, though the corners of his mouth were twitching with a suppressed smile. _I wonder what it would be like to kiss him there..._ Sansa’s eyes grew wide at the thought, taken aback by such an idea. _Gods, I must have drunk that champagne too fast._

“Any lie.” The man confirmed. “Take a good whiff, Little Bird. Everyone in this room is a liar, and they can’t hide from me. I can sniff out every half-truth and empty promise.”

Sansa laughed a little at that, to try and recover the man from the bitter edge that lined his voice. “Really? You sound a bit like a hound dog, sniffing around.” An idea hit her then, and she clapped her hands together in delight, surprising her companion, who almost choked on his mouthful of scotch. 

“What’s with the seal impression?” He asked, coughing a little. Sansa ignored the jibe, grinning wide at him.

“Oh, I just found my name for you.” Her smile turned wry as she looked at him, suddenly aware of how close he was sitting. _I could reach over and touch him,_ she thought, but she didn’t dare indulge such ideas. “If I’m the Little Bird, you can be the Hound!”

The grey eyes narrowed a little at that, veiled in the dark material of his mask, and for a moment Sansa thought she had offended him. But then he smiled, barking out a hoarse laugh of approval.

“I like that one.” He mused, taking another sip from his glass. “The Little Bird and her Hound.” The Hound’s gaze trailed over her then, dragging down her slim frame, over her chest, her hips, her long legs draped in plum skirts, and Sansa shivered involuntarily. One thing stuck in her head, though. _My Hound. He said he was my Hound._ The idea was more appealing than it should have been.

Just then, a small commotion from across the room caught Sansa’s attention, and she turned in her seat to watch as a small party of people waltzed in through the main doors, parting the guests like multi-coloured drapes. She could feel the Hound’s gaze slide reluctantly away from her, to rest on the new arrivals.

“Robert!” The man in question was short, with blonde curly hair and clever eyes that stared a little blearily out into the crowd as he descended the stair, flanked either side by two women. The people nearby were muttering in disapproval; the man was clearly drunk. Sansa recognised him easily, however. _Tyrion Lannister. Joffrey’s uncle._ She’d never met the man, but he had quite the wild reputation; sharp, witty, but with a weakness for gambling and wine and women.

Robert Baratheon had spotted his brother-in-law, and staggered towards him with a bellow of “Tyrion! Tyrion, my good man, it’s been- _hic_ \- far too long.” His voice carried over to where Sansa and her companion sat, fairly concealed behind a tall pillar.

“Bloody hells.” The Hound muttered, eyes narrowed at the sight of Tyrion. “Of course _he_ would be here.”  
Unsure as to what could have caused the man’s dislike of the youngest Lannister, Sansa attempted to steer the conversation away from him, fixating on Tyrion’s two female companions. They were beautiful, one with a dark complexion and tall frame, the other petite and white-blonde, and dressed for the occasion. “Who do you think his friends are?” She asked the Hound. 

The man scoffed at that, not taking his glare from the general direction of Tyrion Lannister. “If you call paid escorts friends, Little Bird, I suppose they’re whoever that arrogant shit wants them to be.”

Sansa shifted uncomfortably in her seat, realising his meaning. _Oh._ She tried to compose her features into an expression of nonchalance, but the Hound had spotted her reaction, and gave her a wicked grin.

“Oh, come now, Little Bird, don’t look so embarrassed.” His eyes bored into hers, something dark within their depths. “You’re no child. I’m sure your parents told you about that sort of thing.”

He was mocking her again, delighting in her discomfort, and Sansa steeled her gaze. Of course she wasn’t totally ignorant of things like that- she was nineteen, after all, and she had an older brother. Robb would occasionally bring girls back to the house, in the early hours when he thought everyone was asleep, but his room happened to be next to Sansa’s. 

The first time Robb brought a lady friend home, she had been so embarrassed she’d considered running from the house in shame, trying to block out all she heard. Her sole comfort was that neither of her parents knew what had happened- or so she’d thought. When Robb came down to breakfast the next morning, his female acquaintance mysteriously gone, Catelyn had asked him sternly what he had been doing that night that condoned the blasphemy she’d heard, the cries invoking the gods. Sansa had wanted to sink into the floor, though she had done nothing wrong.

Her awkward recounting was interrupted by the rasping laughter of the Hound. “Spare me your blushes, Little Bird.” He told her with a wry grin. “Or, better yet, don’t. You’re even prettier all flustered.”

Sansa’s mind reeled at that. _He thinks me pretty._ It was a delightful thought, though she hated to admit it. _I wonder what he looks like, beneath the mask._ Part of her wanted to reach over, to pull it from his face and behold him for true. _I’m sure he’s quite handsome._

Her fingers twitched at her sides, and she almost reached for the mask, without thinking, without so much as contemplating her curiosity. However, before she could so much as move, a voice behind her gave her a start.

“You have an _astoundingly_ long neck.” The voice drawled, slightly slurred with drink. Opposite her, the Hound sat a little straighter in his seat, throwing a deadly glare over her shoulder. Turning, Sansa beheld the face of Tyrion Lannister, who was observing her with alcohol-clouded eyes, peeking out from a golden mask.

“Um... thank you?” She offered in reply, casting a shy glance at his two...companions, standing sullenly behind him.

“Pretty, too.” Tyrion observed, though without the leering tone any other man might have used. “What brings you here?”

“She was invited.” The rough voice snapped from behind her, and both Sansa and Tyrion looked over at the tall man. “And we were in the middle of a conversation, so if you wouldn’t _mind_ , you can bugger right off.”

Sansa was speechless at such a vehemently angry outburst. Tyrion looked at the Hound for a few moments, blinking heavily and swaying slightly where he stood. He seemed to be pondering something, apparently unaware of what the tall man had just said.

Finally, Tyrion broke his silence. Sansa could sense the Hound tensing dangerously at his words, and it confused her.

“Don’t I know you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... bored Arya plus over-protective Ned (awwh) plus drunk Tyrion and the ever-so-slightly obvious sexual tension between Sansa and her Hound makes for one very odd chapter. But at the same time I loved writing it. I am not ashamed. [Well, not much.]
> 
> Comments are extremely useful to me! I'd be ever so grateful if you would leave some feedback, so I know what people enjoyed, what you think needs improving or what you'd like to see happen next. Many thanks! <3


	5. Rescuers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor narrowly avoids an awkward situation of his own. Meanwhile, both Arya and Catelyn need rescuers of their own.

[SANDOR’S POV]

“Don’t I know you?”

The question reverberated in Sandor’s head, fuelling the anger pulsing through his veins. _Bloody buggering hells. Of all the people to be here, right now._

Tyrion Lannister’s mismatched eyes were unfocused, but they were expectant all the same. They were all looking at him, he knew, and yet he was silent for a moment or two. _Yes, you do know me,_ he could have said. _I’ve only been working as a glorified babysitter for your shit of a nephew for ten fucking years. You only see me every bloody week at the Quiet Isle Centre._

But instead he took a long gulp of his scotch, draining the glass, and gave a half-hearted shrug. “Never seen you before in my life.”

Tyrion nodded at that, turning back to the Little Bird with a stupid smile on his face. “Now you, my lady, I’ve seen before for certain. You’re very like your mother. Won’t you remind me of your name?”

He watched as the young woman’s blue eyes found his, bright and shining, her lips turned up in a mischievous smile. Sandor stared back in silent fascination, but his stomach dropped as she leaned towards Tyrion, still smiling. _What the fuck is she doing?_ A spark of jealousy wrenched through him, and he had the urge to throttle the little man for no good reason.  
But the Little Bird simply whispered something into his ear, and Tyrion smiled all the wider, glancing over at Sandor. When the Little Bird pulled away, he was relieved to see that she looked back at him again.

“I see. Well, it was lovely meeting you again, Miss.” With a wink, Tyrion Lannister walked off in pursuit of his female companions, who were standing bored nearby. Sandor regarded the redhead with a hard look, inwardly confused.

“What in seven hells was that about?” He asked, almost wincing at how harsh his voice sounded. To his surprise, the Little Bird only laughed.

“Well, I couldn’t tell him my name in front of you! That would ruin the game.” She took another sip of her champagne, looking over the glass at him, long lashes fluttering...

He looked away suddenly, tugging at his collar to try and relieve the burning sensation that had pooled across his neck, his face, _elsewhere_. Sandor noticed that his hands were shaking again, but he hid it well, putting the glass on the low table between them and folding his hands behind his head. _That’s two drinks I’ve had tonight. The Elder Brother won’t be pleased, but if I tell him I was drinking with a girl..._

The monk was one of the councillors at the self-help group Sandor had enrolled himself into help with his drinking problem. Tyrion happened to attend the very same one. _Him and his cocky friend... What was his name? Oh, Bronn._ Why exactly he went every week, Sandor didn’t know, but he found himself telling the Elder Brother... well, everything. He was one of the few people he trusted with such information. _Hells, probably the only one._

To Sandor’s surprise, the Elder Brother had been just as frank with him as he’d been himself. _“Look, Sandor, I can’t help you if you won’t help yourself.”_ The monk had told him, eyes honest. _“Coming here was the first step, but you need to find something in the day-to-day to make you want to change. Isn’t there anyone special in your life?”_

Sandor had laughed at that, sarcastically asking the monk what he would advise. _“Well, I’m no expert,_ ” the Elder Brother had told him with a smile, “but maybe talking to a woman would be a good start.”

_Bloody hells,_ Sandor thought, _things must be pretty fucking desperate if I’m getting dating advice from a celibate._ He cast a small glance over at his beautiful companion, and allowed himself a small smug smile. _But it seems to be working, alright._

The Little Bird caught his glance then, spotting the smile on his face, and a questioning crease formed between her auburn brows. He imagined, just for a moment, placing soft kisses there, moving down the slope of her nose, her soft mouth, her delicate neck...

A loud burst of laughter from the alcove beside them snapped both Sandor and the Little Bird out of their reverie, and he turned, scowling, to find the source of the interruption. Several leather couches had been pulled together to form a seating area to their right, and a gaggle of people sat around it, attention fixed on two people in the midst of the group. The Little Bird got to her feet, craning her neck to see over the heads of the people, and she turned to him, smiling.

“Shall we go and have a look?” She asked, almost breathlessly. Sandor nodded, not entirely sure what he had just agreed to, but unwilling to let her out of his sight for a moment. He followed her over to the noisy group, all clad in a rainbow of masks, which turned in their general direction. Sandor tensed at the sudden attention, but the Little Bird commanded most of it, to both his relief and his dismay.

“What’s going on?” She asked, her tone playful, so much so that he could hear the soft smile on her full lips. He suppressed a groan, clenching and unclenching his fists. The woman nearest to the redhead muttered something to her with a wicked grin, and Sandor noted how the Little Bird’s shoulders tensed momentarily, before shaking in silent laughter.

“What is it?” He asked, genuinely curious but also wanting to look at her some more. The blue eyes found his, wary yet amused.

“They’re playing a game.” Was all she said in reply, a faint dusting of pink tracing her cheeks.

He let his tone darken at that. “What sort of game?”

Her gaze never wavered. “It’s called ‘Innuendo Bingo’.”

[GENDRY’S POV]

He left Hot Pie munching at the leftover crudités, setting out to find the girl he’d misplaced. _Where the hells is she?_ Gendry had suggested they cause mayhem, and, somehow, that didn’t seem so appealing without Arya there.

He made a complete circuit of the ballroom, but, ascertaining that she was no longer there, he started dejectedly for the kitchens again. To his surprise, however, he saw that the glass doors leading out onto the terrace in the darkened hallway between the two rooms had been flung open, wispy drapes billowing in the light breeze. Gendry stepped through them, his eyes scanning the half-lit space outside.

She was walking along the low outer wall, arms out to balance herself, but Gendry panicked momentarily. _The drop is huge, and if she falls..._ He stepped toward her suddenly, making the girl start, stumbling backward as she did so-  
He caught her around the waist, pulling her upright so that she found her balance again. The grey eyes found his, level now that she was standing on the wall. They were narrowed in frustration, he was pleased to see.

“What was that for, you stupid?” Arya asked him, her usual scowl serving to relieve his nerves. “I almost fell.”

“Well, don’t climb on the walls, then.” Gendry replied, with a grin he knew would frustrate her. It worked, and she gave him a light punch on the forearm.

“I’ll do whatever I like, thank you very much. Where did you disappear to, anyway?”

He regarded her with raised brows. “Me and Hot Pie went to the kitchen, like we said. Where did _you_ go?”

Arya rolled her eyes heavenward. “My father thought it would be a good time to lecture me. He’s not normally like that, it was weird.”

Gendry scoffed at that. “What? Are you telling me you’re all upset because your daddy shouted at you?”

She hit him again then, harder, and he winced. “I’m not upset, and he didn’t shout.”

He grinned wickedly at her. “Oh, really? Then what did he want?”

“He said...” Arya frowned at him, looking him dead in the eye. “He said I shouldn’t hang around with you. That I only just met you tonight, and you’re too old.” He watched as she worried her lip with her sharp little teeth, pondering something. “Gendry, you can let go now.”

He still had his hands around her waist, he realised, and he released her with a start, face reddening, though it was too dark for anyone to tell. “Sorry.” He muttered, as Arya stepped off the wall, picking up the high heels she had deposited on the terrace’s tiles and pulling them back on reluctantly. “So your dad doesn’t like you hanging round with me?”

The grey eyes met his, flickering with something he didn’t recognise... _Embarrassment? Is the she-wolf blushing?_  
“Not just you.” She muttered in reply, too quickly. “Hot Pie too. Anyway, I don’t care what he says, you’re my friend and we’ll cause all the mayhem we like.”

_Friend._ Gendry’s thoughts repeated, slightly hollow. _I guess that’s right._

“Gendry? We are causing mayhem, right?” Arya’s tone had turned hopeful, snapping him out of his reflections. He smiled at her, giving a roll of his eyes.

“Of course. What do you take us for?” He held out his arm in a gesture of mock chivalry. “Shall we go and find something crazy to do, _my lady_?”

She laughed at that, looping her arm through his roughly. “Certainly.” She replied. “But if you call me “my lady” again, I’ll knock your teeth out.”

Arm in arm, they walked inside, and Gendry did not doubt her for a moment.

[CATELYN’S POV]

She looked around the room in exasperation, searching for a familiar face, but each one was concealed by elaborate masks. Catelyn raised a hand to her own mask, a blue-and-red affair that framed her Tully eyes, and heaved a sigh. _Where is Ned?_ She wondered, taking a sip of her drink. _Where are Robb and the girls?_

A hand on her shoulder interrupted her wondering, and Catelyn turned around, half expecting to find Arya scowling at her and asking when they could go home. But that was not who stood behind her, green eyes boring into hers from the midst of a lilac mask, sly mouth turned upward into a smile.

“Cat.” Her name left his lips with overconfident familiarity, as though it belonged to him alone.

“Petyr.” She replied, forcing a smile at the sight of her childhood friend. “It’s been so long.”

The man smiled wider at that, taking her hand in his and kissing it softly. She barely contained the urge to roll her eyes. _He hasn’t changed at all._

“Too long, Cat, far too long.” He lowered her hand, though never releasing it. “The last I saw of you, you’d just had your youngest daughter. What was her name?”

“Arya.” Catelyn replied, a little uncomfortable at the topic. _Petyr loved me well, once. I doubt he truly wants to talk of my children._ But she humoured him anyway, remembering the shy little boy he had once been, back in Riverrun. “But I’ve had two more sons since then. My youngest just turned eleven.”

Petyr’s smile faltered at that, as she knew it would, but he recovered it, simply saying, “Well, that just proves it. It’s been _much_ too long. I was so pleased when Robert told me you’d be here tonight.”

_So he’s worked his way into Robert Baratheon’s good books, has he?_ Even in all the time that had passed between their last meeting, Ned had informed her of Petyr’s rather dubious reputation, but it was that distasteful career choice that had propelled Petyr Baelish into the ranks as one of the richest men in Westeros. “Is that so? I didn’t know you and Robert were friends.”

Petyr smirked a little at that. Perhaps it might have been overlooked by other people, but Catelyn had seen that same smirk many times before, and he could not hide it from her now. “Robert Baratheon and I happen to... run in the same circles.” He managed finally, and Catelyn was surprised to notice he was running a thumb along her knuckles. _Really, the man has gall._ “But tell me, Cat, how is dear Ned? I haven’t seen him here tonight. It’s unlike him to abandon his wife among strangers.”

She could hear the disdain in Petyr’s voice, well concealed, but she knew him far too well. Catelyn narrowed her eyes at him, about to set him right, when another voice interrupted her.

“I haven’t abandoned her.” Ned stepped beside her, linking his arm through his, holding her a little closer. “I was only getting a drink. But it was kind of you to ask after me, Baelish. I’m very well, thank you.”

Catelyn watched as the two men stared each other down, green eyes against grey ones. “How wonderful.” Petyr murmured, unsmiling. He suddenly released her hand. “It’s always good to see you, _Eddard_.”

“Likewise.” Came her husband’s frosty reply, and Catelyn cleared her throat, smiling inwardly.

“It was so lovely to see you again, Petyr, but we really ought to be looking for Arya, hadn’t we, Ned? She’s got herself into mischief again, no doubt.”

Petyr smiled at that, dragging his eyes from Ned to regard her with a strained smile. “Ah, the joys of parenthood.” He mused, though there was an edge to his voice that Catelyn did not appreciate. “Well, good evening to you both.”

With that, he slunk off amid the crowd, and Catelyn felt Ned turn her around, so she looked him in the eye. “What were you doing, talking to him? I know he was your friend once, Cat, but I don’t like what I hear about him. I like the way he looks at you even less.”

Catelyn smiled, reaching up to place a hand on her husband’s cheek, taking in his solemn features. The mask he wore was grey, reflecting his stern demeanour, but she felt him soften a little at her touch in a way that still warmed her heart, even after all their years of marriage.

“It doesn’t matter.” She told him, with a raised brow. “You came to rescue me, after all. My hero.” She pressed a kiss to his cheek, feeling him smile at the contact. 

“Speaking of Arya,” Ned began, taking her hand in his, “she’s gone off with some boys. New friends of hers, apparently. I don’t like it.”

His tone was almost grumbling, and it reminded her of the way her own father’s voice had been, the day she told him a certain Eddard Stark had asked her out to dinner. Catelyn laughed, squeezing his hand in hers. “Ned, as sweet as you are when you’re being protective, I don’t think Arya needs it. She can handle herself.”

Ned shook his head at that. “Cat, one of them has to be at least two years older. You know what boys are like.”

Catelyn Stark knew exactly what boys were like, more so than her husband did. She had given birth to three, after all. “Then he’s only Sansa’s age. Besides, he’ll know better than to try anything with Arya.” With sudden curiosity, she gave her husband a questioning glance. “Did he seem nice? Was he tall?”

Ned groaned in disapproval, and she stifled a laugh, pulling her arms around him. “Don’t worry so much, Ned. She’ll be fine.” 

She fiddled with his mask, straightening it until it sat nicely on his nose. “You look _very_ handsome in that mask, by the way.” She added in a low voice, punctuating her meaning with a little wink. Ned’s grip around her tightened, and she laughed, feeling better than she had all night. 

“What about Robb?” She asked, expecting the reply.

“He’s... his usual self.” Ned told her with a smirk.

“Really, when did that boy become such a ladies’ man?” Catelyn wondered aloud, thinking back to the lectures she had given her eldest son. He was handsome, she knew, but every mother thought their boys handsome. Clearly, though, his charms were not lost on the young ladies of King’s Landing either. Ned grinned at her.

“Like father, like son.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Firstly, I'm loving the cuteness between Cat and Ned. It's adorable, okay?
> 
> -Secondly... Gendry though, being all touchy-feely, even if it is by accident. I'm quietly cheering you on, Gendry. Go get 'er, tiger.
> 
> -Thirdly; yes. I completely, 100% just put Sansa and Sandor in a game of Innuendo Bingo. I regret nothing. 
> 
> [If you're wondering what 'Innuendo Bingo' is, it's basically a game aired on Radio 1 in the UK, but it's become a very popular (and funny) game to play at parties and the like. Here's the Wikipedia definition: 
> 
> 'Innuendo Bingo—A game that involves playing clips from other radio or TV programmes where what is said can be misconstrued as innuendo. The clips are played to someone while the person's mouth is full of water, and the challenge is to not spit out the water while laughing.'
> 
> I fully support Sandor playing this game.]
> 
> Comments, dear friends, are very important to me! I'd be ever so grateful if you'd give me some tips, stuff you enjoyed and things you think need improving. Thanks, chaps, and happy reading! <3


	6. Unintended (Or, Innuendo Bingo gone Awry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Little Bird and her Hound take a break from the party to get a breath of fresh air. Talking ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My head screamed "Innuendo Bingo", but my heart yelled "cuteness and feels" and well... the latter won. Apologies.
> 
> Expect cuteness and feels. You have been warned.

[SANSA’S POV]

She was the first to laugh, spluttering on the water in her mouth and spitting it ungracefully into the bowl between them. The crowd around them roared in laughter, and she felt her face burn, though it was a pleasant sort of embarrassment. Opposite, the Hound gave her a wicked look, swallowing the water with a grin.

“Who knew you had such a dirty mind, Little Bird?” He asked, making her blush even more beneath her mask. The innuendo had been a clip from an advert, on _Radio Westeros_ , and could be misconstrued as something _very_ inappropriate. It hadn’t helped that it had been a commercial for a LannisCo enterprise, in Mr Tywin’s very solemn deadpan. Even the Hound had given a snort, though he’d kept his composure well enough.

“I don’t!” She protested between giggles. 

The tall man folded his arms as he looked at her. “Really? All I heard was a perfectly innocent advert for-“

A throaty chuckle interrupted him, and Sansa turned to see the man who seemed to be organising the game grinning at her. He was middle-aged, but had an easiness about him that made him seem much younger. 

“You, lovely girl, need to get yourself some action. I’m sure your friend over there would be more than happy to oblige you.” He winked at the Hound, whose smile turned rapidly into an intimidating scowl.

“Watch your mouth.” He growled in warning, only making the older man laugh again.

“I was only jokin’. But if you’re not interested...” Here he leaned toward Sansa, palm outstretched as if to shake her hand. “ _Enchantè_. The name’s Bronn.”

Sansa laughed, wiping the remaining water from her chin and taking his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

She could hear the Hound grunt in disapproval, but Bronn only grinned all the wider. “Now, what would make such a polite lady like yourself want to play innuendo bingo with the likes of _him_?” He gestured to the Hound, who was glaring rather obviously at the older man through the mask. 

“It sounded like fun.” Sansa explained, still aware of the blush in her cheeks. “My older brothers play it at home with their friends, but they never let me join in.”

Bronn laughed at that. “Well, I can understand why. An innocent thing like you, I’m sure your ears are bleeding at the filth you’ve heard tonight. Even if it was unintentionally meant.”

_Innocent?_ Sansa had been called that before, by her friends, by Robb and Jon, even by Arya. It made her seem naive, and that was something that bothered the young woman more than she could say. _Even when I’m being someone else_ , she thought to herself, _I can’t escape their judgement._

A heavy hand on her shoulder made her turn her head, and the Hound was looking down at her with a softened gaze, clearly aware of her embarrassment. “I’m going out onto the balcony for some fresh air. Bit stuffy in here.”

Sansa nodded, noticing the final glare the tall man threw at Bronn, who simply gave a mischievous grin. Part of her suspected that they knew each other, but she let that thought sink downward in her mind. _It doesn’t matter who he knows in everyday life. Tonight is different._ Why she thought so, Sansa didn’t know, but it was an exciting prospect nonetheless.

“I think I’ll join you.” She decided, getting to her feet and brushing down her skirts, though they were spotless. “It was lovely to meet you, Bronn. Even if the game was brief.”

Bronn chuckled. “Oh, it’s no trouble, miss. Your mind’s not half so dirty as Tyrion’s. He spat water all over his sister’s brand new curtains. Don’t tell her, though.”

Laughing to herself, Sansa let the Hound steer her out of the seating area, pressing through the crowd to the veranda at the far side of the room, announced by a pair of shining glass doors. They stepped out onto the balcony, and Sansa let out a little gasp. 

The perimeter wall had been adorned with glittering fairy lights, that seemed to set the whole night aglow with a golden shine. Near the doors, a few masked partygoers milled about, sipping at various drinks and laughing, but the Hound paid them no mind, stepping over to lean against the balustrade, looking out into the darkened gardens far below them.

The lights and the pearlescent glow of the moon on the horizon lent some illumination across the Baratheons’ precisely manicured lawns, ending at a high marble wall. Beyond it, as far as Sansa could see, was the rippling black silk of the sea, where Blackwater Bay reached up to kiss King’s Landing, its wealthiest inhabitants residing just above the golden sands. _I used to imagine myself living here,_ she recalled, sending another infuriating blush to her cheeks, making her mask feel unbearable against her skin. _I dreamed of being Mrs Joffrey Baratheon, with a big house by the beach._ It was a ridiculous notion to her now, seeing how distasteful her imagination’s once-husband had become. _Besides, I don’t even like sand._

“He had a point, the bloody bastard.” She heard the Hound rasp, his stance against the wall becoming ever more tense as he glared out across the night. Sansa looked over at him, wary yet utterly confused.

“What are you talking about?” 

He turned to her then, his eyes rendered almost black in the golden light around them. “What do you think you’re doing with the likes of me?” The Hound growled. His tone was angered, that much was certain, but there was something behind it she could not place. “Why have you stayed with _me_ all night?”

A sudden burning sensation rose behind her eyes then, and Sansa felt like kicking herself. _Don’t even think about it.  
_ She cautioned the tears threatening to fall.

“What do you mean?” She replied, feeling more stupid every second. “I... I thought you liked talking to me. I thought we were having a good time, with the game, and-“ She let out a shaking sigh, realisation hitting her then, like a lead weight. “I’m annoying you, aren’t I?”

The Hound said nothing, just stared at her, his black eyes unfathomable. Sansa took that as confirmation, letting out a bitter laugh meant only for herself. 

“Gods, Arya was right,” she muttered, half-laughing, “I am _stupid_. I should never have come tonight.” 

Her sister was always telling her how silly she was, for her love of stories and songs. _Tonight was too good to be true,_ she knew. _A story and a song in one, with masks and mystery besides._ And she’d been intrigued by the man standing before her, staring down at her without so much as a word on his lips. She had imagined him as some dark anti-hero, and she had _loved_ every moment of it. _I’ve just been getting on his nerves all night._

“No, no, Little Bird.” She felt a pressure on her chin suddenly, lifting her gaze from her silver shoes to his face. His expression had softened somewhat, from what she could see beside the mask, but his mouth was still taut. “You’re not... you don’t...” He let out a sudden growl of exasperation, tightening his grip on her chin. “You could never be annoying. I’ve had more fun tonight, just talking to you, than I have for years.”

She stared up at him, eyes wide. _Does he truly mean that?_ But she remembered his words; he was no liar. 

“I meant what that bloody idiot was talking about... Bronn.” The Hound’s eyes darkened again, and his mouth turned downward in a bitter sneer as he recalled. “What’s a lovely thing like you doing talking to the likes of _me_?”

It was then that Sansa recognised the tone in his voice, the one she had failed to recognise. _Utter desperation._ She could not say which emotion was more powerful in that moment; her confusion, or her heartfelt sympathy.

“Because I like you.” She said simply, as an incredulous little giggle escaped her lips. _Giggling._ She silently berated herself. _How attractive, Sansa._

The Hound, however, didn’t seem to mind, blinking at her in poorly veiled shock. “You... you what?”

Sansa smiled up at him, quite sure she had never felt so relieved in all her life. “I _like_ you. I _enjoy your company._ You’re funny, if a bit foul-mouthed,” She gave him a wry smile at that, “and you still haven’t told me your name.”

Those last words should not have been an explanation, Sansa knew, and yet their implication hung in the air between them, unsaid and yet as clear as day. _It doesn’t matter what your name is, not to me._

The Hound seemed lost for words, but his frown had thankfully disappeared. Suddenly, he laughed, his harsh, barking laughter sending disapproving glances from the other people on the balcony. Neither her nor the Hound, Sansa suspected with a grin, truly cared.

“Those are pretty words, Little Bird.” He told her, a sideways smile stretching beneath the dark fabric of his mask. “More than a dog like me deserves. But you gave them willingly, didn’t you? As lovely and kind and innocent as you are, you’ve sung me a nice little tune.”

His words weren’t quite coherent, and Sansa guessed it was just his inner monologue being thought aloud, but she couldn’t help but frown up at the Hound then. “ _Innocent_?” She repeated, narrowing her eyes and pouting slightly. Why did everyone assume she was so? “I’m nineteen years old. I’m no child.”

_Damn,_ she cursed inwardly, trying to gauge the Hound’s reaction uncertainly. _I just told him how old I am._ Even behind the mask, Sansa could tell he was not so much older than her- thirty at the most- and yet, she was worried their difference in age would be problematic in the mysterious man’s eyes.

Her words of recovery died in her throat, however, as she saw his eyes travel downwards, in a swift appreciation of her form. The Hound gave a soft chuckle, as rough as the rest of him, and yet Sansa suddenly thought that there was no better sound in the whole world. 

“You’re no child, Little Bird.” The Hound agreed, giving her his lopsided smile as his eyes found hers again. “Anyone could tell you that. But you’re innocent all the same.”

The wink he gave her then was both frustrating, and emboldening. Sansa reached upward, placing her palm on the side of his mask, letting her little finger brush against the smooth skin of his uncovered cheek. She could feel the man freeze beneath her touch for a moment, his eyes darkening in surprise. But when she did not pull away, he seemed to lean into her hand, his eyelids falling closed for a heartbeat. “ _Little Bird_ -“ The Hound murmured, cautionary, but unable to hide the deep timbre of pleasure that laced his every word. Sansa shivered in response, but interrupted his speech with her own.

“If I’m so naive,” she said, not tearing her gaze from his, “then why would I do this?”

Before her reason could interject, to remind her that he was a stranger she had met _that very night_ , before she could think, before she could so much as _breathe_ , Sansa pressed her lips against the Hound’s.

They were soft, she realised somewhere in the back of her mind, as she held her mouth to his, lingering. One side seemed a little rougher, where the mask covered one side of his face, and it intrigued her. Barely aware of what she was doing, she lifted her other hand, intent on ridding him of the troublesome mask, but a larger hand caught it, imprisoning her fingers in a strong grip that was gentle all the same.

The Hound groaned, the low vibrations dancing along her lips, and suddenly Sansa pulled away, all too aware of the implications of that sound. _He wants me_ , she realised, chest heaving as she caught her breath. The grey eyes had opened at the loss of contact, the pupils wider than she remembered them. _He wants me, and I should feel ashamed of myself._

And yet she didn’t.

“I...” Her voice sounded small, even in her own ears. “I...I feel a little cold. Excuse me.”

She turned numbly and walked back indoors, aware that the Hound was still standing behind her, catching just a glimpse of his hand rising to touch his cheek where her own fingers had been but moments before. _What would Jeyne say, if she saw what I just did?_ Jeyne had spared no detail on Sansa about her own romantic endeavours... some of them a little less decent than others. _I think she might faint with shock._ She was the innocent one, after all, in her small group of friends.

_Worse... what would Mother think?_ Looking around through the sea of faces, Sansa was relieved to find Catelyn Stark nowhere in sight. Part of her felt bad for leaving her mysterious companion out on the veranda, but it was only for a moment, just so she could try and gather her thoughts. 

The other part of Sansa felt her mouth turn up in a grin. _I don’t care what Jeyne or Mother or the rest of them think_ , she realised, and the thought was almost liberating. 

_I just kissed the Hound, and I enjoyed every moment of it._

[SANDOR’S POV]

He watched her walk back indoors, plum skirts swaying about her ankles, caressing her every step. Sandor did not stop her, equally as bewildered.

_She just kissed me._ The thought was bemusing, impossible, but it was the truth. _She_ had kissed _him_. Him! It was beyond absurd, and Sandor had to touch his cheek, feeling the warmth from her little hand lingering on his skin. Her smell still hung in the air, clung to his clothes, and he felt he could drown in it, in the scent of lemons and lavender. 

The absence of his Little Bird made him feel suddenly cold. Looking about the balcony, Sandor noticed a few guests staring quite openly, jaws slacked with surprise. _Let them stare, the gape-mouthed pricks._ He leant them a triumphant grin, one that pulled his burns behind the mask, and they turned away. _The old dog may have his day yet._

He made for the door then, eager to see where the Little Bird had flown to. She’d told him she enjoyed his company, Sandor recalled with a wicked smile, and he knew that she did not truly want to rid herself of it now. _Poor thing, feeling all shy._ He laughed internally. _I’d love to see how she feels about the thoughts her kiss just gave me._

Desire was coursing through him, a fire through his veins, though this flame was utterly _pleasurable_. Sandor wanted her so badly he thought his legs would give way, but somehow he found his way back inside the ballroom, looking around for the beautiful redhead who had just given him her kisses. _It doesn’t even matter that I want her._ The thought was foreign to him, but it made him grin like a fool as he pressed through the guests, craning his neck as he did so. _As long as she looked at me again, and talked to me, or even leant me a smile, I could die a happy man without so much as touching her._

The harsher voice inside his head was growling at him. _She probably drank that bloody champagne too fast, got confused. Hells, she ran away, for gods’ sake! What woman in her right mind would want to kiss me?_ But the contentment that had descended at the feeling of her lips on his drowned out the negatives, and Sandor resumed his search.

He hadn’t made it very far from the balcony doors, the crowd thick as people lingered near the cooler air, when he felt someone tapping his forearm. A wry grin spread across his face, and he turned, expecting to see the Little Bird behind him, blushing the way she did so prettily. 

Instead, he was greeted by the sight of a different girl. This one was younger, a good head shorter than the Little Bird at least, donned in a silver dress and black lace mask. Her hair was dark and short, and the girl kept pushing it out of her eyes as she glared up at him, grey eyes steely.

“What in seven hells do you think you’re doing?” She asked, her voice deliberately heated. Behind her, two waiters were hovering nervously, clearly her companions. One of them even darted forward at that, trying to pull her away from Sandor with a muttered “ _Arya, let’s go,”_ , but the angry young woman would not have any of it.

“Say what you mean, girl.” Sandor growled at her, all too aware that his hesitation could mean losing all hope of finding the Little Bird. “Or get out of my way.”

The short girl crossed her arms, with a glare that would have been almost intimidating, had she been speaking to anyone else. “I _saw_ you.” She spat, keeping her voice low so that no other guests could hear her. “On the balcony. I _saw_ you _kissing_ my _sister_!”

Sandor looked down at her, caught off guard for a moment. He vaguely remembered seeing another girl arrive with the Starks earlier that evening, a short thing lacking in her sister’s graceful beauty. He gave a rasp of laughter.

“Ha! Spying, were you?” He asked with a mocking smile. “You off to tell mummy and daddy what you saw, little girl?”

Even more anger flickered through the Stark girl’s grey eyes at that, if it were possible. “I’m _not_ a little girl.” She hissed in reply. “I’m only _two years_ younger than my sister, and you seemed fine with _her_ age.”

_This one’s got gall, I’ll give her that._ The girl, Arya if he’d heard the waiter correctly, took a step forward, pointing directing up into his face as far as she could reach.

“My sister’s an idiot,” she said, “but she’s good. And if you even _think_ about going near her again, you might find yourself short of a few teeth. So leave her be.”

For a few moments, Sandor said nothing, taking in Arya’s words with a frown. Then it came to him, and he barked a laugh all over again. _She thinks I took the kiss off her sister,_ he realised with a sense of mirth. _I don’t bloody blame her for thinking it, but she’s entirely misinformed. I wonder what she’ll think of her sister now?_

“Well, as fucking _terrified_ as I am by your threat, little girl, you might have to change your words.”

Confusion darkened the girl’s grey eyes at that, and Sandor recognised them as Ned Stark’s eyes. _She’s nothing like the Little Bird, in face nor favour._ “What are you talking about?”

Sandor gave a wicked grin, bending a little lower so that he could look the younger Stark girl dead in the eye. “You’ll have to tell your sister to watch her _own_ actions in future.” He straightened, looking over at the girl’s friends, who were still loitering nervously nearby. _Ha, they’re wise enough to know when to stay away._

“ _What is that supposed to mean?_ ” Arya reiterated, her voice growing a little louder in her exasperation. Sandor smiled at her.

“Well, it means that your sister kissed me first.”

And with a wink, he walked away, leaving a furious young she-wolf in search of his Little Bird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, I'd like to apologise. _"Where was the innuendo bingo stuff?_ " you are probably wondering at this precise moment: the answer is, I just couldn't write it well enough. I did put the reaction in though. I'm so sorry! (please don't be mad at me! Pretty pwease? *puppy eyes*)
> 
> BUT: SanSan kiss! I think that more than makes up for it, don't you? No? Well, it's a working progress. Expect more mushiness in the proceeding chapters (unless it's Arya and Gendry. Those guys aren't very mushy people, but are cute anyways)
> 
> Secondly: Ah, Bronn. I did enjoy putting him into the mix. (And the incident with Tyrion spitting all over the curtains during innuendo bingo? Might have happened in real life to a friend of mine. I filmed it. I think I broke a few ribs laughing.)
> 
> Thirdly: Sansa Stark, you little minx! And she WALKED AWAY after kissing him. Well: "Treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen", as they say.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts, if you'd be so kind as to leave a comment! <3


	7. Battles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The promised mayhem ensues, though not as Arya initially intended. Meanwhile, the Little Bird is reunited with her Hound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all like cute mushiness. If not, turn away now for your own safety.

[ARYA’S POV]

By the time they had returned to the kitchen, Arya was still seething. _He called me ‘little girl’_ she thought angrily. _Who the hells does that guy think he is?_

“Arya, forget about it.” Gendry told her, resuming his place behind the island counter in the centre of the room, where several trays of freshly-made cakes were arranged in neat rows. Arya saw Hot Pie looking at them with a sense of pride on his face, but nothing could make her forget the stranger’s slight. 

She knew she was short, and skinny, and plain. Arya used that to her advantage, besting people twice her size in fencing matches, but even her fencing teacher Syrio often called her ‘boy’. She found her gaze wandering to Gendry, wondering if that’s how he saw her. _Just one of the boys._ She was uncertain why she cared all of a sudden.

“I won’t _forget about it_.” Arya snapped in reply, giving the older boy her most dangerous glare. “He had his hands all over my sister, and he _said_ she started it. What a liar! Sansa would never talk to him, she likes pretty boys like Joffrey Baratheon.” Though her tone was strong, Arya’s inner certainty wavered a moment. _Does she?_ Sansa had been head over heels for boys like Joff a few years ago, but she wasn’t sure whether that was true. Still, she wouldn’t let Gendry win the argument, sitting atop the counter again and scowling.

“Try a cake.” Hot Pie suggested with a shrug and an absentminded smile. “They always make me feel better. Plus, I made them, so they’re really good.”

Gendry scoffed. “Modest, aren’t we?” He turned to Arya, his blue eyes narrowed, dark hair a little dishevelled. _It looks better that way,_ she reflected, despite herself. _Gods, I’m starting to sound just like Sansa._

“You’re not having any of those cakes.” The young man told her determinedly. “They’re for the guests, if they’ve not stuffed themselves sick already.”

Arya raised an eyebrow at that, suddenly aware that she wanted to do the exact opposite of what Gendry said. She was mad at him, after all. _I have no idea why though._ “ _I’m_ a guest.” She pointed out haughtily. “I’ll have a cake if I want.”

The blue eyes hardened their gaze. “You won’t.”

“Watch me.”

Without another word, Arya reached over to one of the silver trays on the counter beside her, closing her fingers on a choice-looking confection with a swirl of yellow icing, and ate it whole. The frosting covered her fingers and her mouth, but she only smiled, turning to Hot Pie with wide eyes.

“Hot Pie, these are _amazing_!”

The boy flushed proudly at that, giving Gendry a smug look. “I told you.”

Gendry, on the other hand, looked angrier than Arya had ever seen him. He took a step towards her, and suddenly she was aware of how strong he looked, standing eye to eye. 

“What do you think you’re playing at?” He demanded, keeping his voice low to stop it echoing through the vast kitchen. “I’m running a business here, not free cake handouts. Why don’t you just run off back to the party and stay out of our way?”

For a moment, Arya said nothing, simply blinked at him in shock. In a matter of heartbeat, Gendry’s expression melted from frustrated to mildly remorseful, eyes softening. “Arya, I’m... I’m sorry.” He managed, taking an awkward step forward. 

That was his first mistake.

The cake collided with his face dead on, splattering against his nose in an explosion of violet icing and delicate sponge. The young man froze like some sort of bizarre statue, stunned, as the cake slid from his face onto the spotless floor.

“Did you just throw a cake at me?” He asked, spitting out some of the icing in the process. Arya watched him stonily.

“Of course I did, you stupid.” She retorted, lowering herself onto the flagstones with a frosty air. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll _stay out of your way_.”

She had her hand on the door handle, Hot Pie guffawing to himself at the sight of Gendry’s cake-stained state, while she fought an overwhelming sense of disappointment. _I thought he was my friend._ Her father had been right; she made friends too fast.

Then something hit her in the back of the head, soft enough to cause no pain, but leaving a horrible, squelching, sticky trail in its wake as it slid out of her hair and onto her bare neck, making Arya stop dead. _Did he just-?_

When she turned, Gendry was wearing a lopsided grin, his countenance suddenly relaxed. He lifted his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug, one that made frustration burn over Arya. It was shortly replaced by something much more agreeable- _amusement_ \- and she couldn’t help the very unladylike snort that she let out at that point, only making Gendry smile wider.

“Oh, you’re in for it now.” Arya told him menacingly, taking a few steps toward the trays and the cakes that lay arranged like weaponry on the counter. Gendry’s expression turned nervous, and he took a few steps backward, trying to put distance between himself and Arya, but she was advancing, missile in hand- this one, a fluffy meringue topped with cream and fruit. _Let him try to run,_ she thought with cruel mirth. _I have better aim than all my brothers combined._

“Hey, you guys, I _just made_ those cakes!” Hot Pie was protesting from behind them, but Arya didn’t hear him, too intent on her target to stop and think of the implications of her actions. Hells, she doubted she would care even if she did.

“Listen, Arya, let’s be reasonable...” Gendry was muttering, but she’d cornered him against the wall. Without thinking, she let fly, but the young man ducked, and the meringue splattered against the wall tiles.

Then he was after her, and Arya flew, kicking off her shoes as she ran, suppressing the urge to shriek like a child. _Quiet as a cat._ Wasn’t that was Syrio was always telling her? _Oh well, something like that._

At the last moment, she dived behind Hot Pie, and the poor boy got an entire face full of _crème patissiere_ and strawberries. Hot Pie spluttered, coughed, and then gave a grunt of determination, striding up to the tray. Both Arya and Gendry panicked, running for cover, but in the end Gendry was left with a fondant fancy to the stomach.

A battle ensued, Gendry ducking and throwing as many cakes as he could, Arya popping up unseen and pelting her adverseries with a well-placed blow, and Hot Pie... well, he seemed to be more interested in _eating_ his cakes than throwing them, but no one minded. 

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Arya was aware of the chaotic mess around them, the fact that this was _not_ her house, that she would be in big trouble if someone found out... But all that faded away when she saw Gendry laughing, hurling a cake at her and missing by a good few feet. She advanced, barefoot, but skidded on some spilled icing, stumbling forward and hitting Gendry with enough force to pull them both to the floor.

“Ow.” Gendry protested between gasps of laughter. “You’ve _got_ to stop doing that.”

Arya didn’t reply, she was laughing so hard she could feel stitches forming in her side. _Tonight’s been fun_ , she realised as she tried to stand up. But she couldn’t get a solid balance, falling forward again.

It was only Gendry’s arm that stopped them bumping heads, and suddenly Arya realised that their noses were almost touching, his breath warm on her face. Perhaps that explained the heat rising in her cheeks, but she couldn’t look away. _He reminds me of someone_ , she thought dully, all too aware of his gaze on hers. _But I can’t quite think who._

Someone cleared their throat behind them, and Gendry leant her a sheepish grin. _Hot Pie._

Except the tone had been much softer, higher, _feminine_. Both Gendry and Arya’s eyes went wide, the realisation hitting them like a ton of bricks. They turned their heads reluctantly towards the door, to the woman standing there.

“Enjoying yourselves?” Cersei Lannister asked.

*****

[SANSA’S POV]

She leaned her head against the cool stone pillar, watching the couples swaying on the dancefloor nearby, the song smooth and languid and intoxicating. Sansa tried to let it wash over her, banish the heat still present in her cheeks, but not even the music could still her reeling thoughts.

_What if he thinks I’ve left him?_ The idea was shaming, and, though she hated to admit it, disappointing. Sansa would have liked to spend the whole evening with the Hound, if she could. _But I ran away. Oh, he probably thinks me an utter idiot!_

Amid the sea of dancers, her eye caught the movement of a woman in a deep blue gown, her long red hair falling down her back as a stern-looking man with grey eyes held her tight, smiling serenely. Sansa’s heart almost leapt out of her chest at the sight of her mother and father dancing, the sweetness of the moment heartwarming. The love her parents shared had always been a source of pride for Sansa, as she compared it to the loveless unions of the likes of Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister. 

For a moment, though, she let herself imagine that the redhead was _herself_ , laughing softly and gazing upward into the eyes of a man... except the man was much taller than her father, and wore a black mask, and whispered to her with a voice like steel on stone.

“See something interesting, little bird?” 

Sansa started with a gasp at the sound of the same voice she’d been thinking of. The Hound leaned against the same pillar as her, his arms folded but his gaze never leaving her face.

“I’m sorry I walked away.” Sansa blurted, unable to think of anything else. “It’s just... well, I got a little nervous. I shouldn’t have... _kissed_ you like I did-“

His hoarse laughter made her stop, and she saw with some relief that the Hound’s smile reached up to his grey eyes, free from any mockery. “No need to apologise, Little Bird.” He rasped, leaning a little closer so she could hear him over the orchestra. “I don’t think I need to tell _you_ how much I enjoyed it.”

A strange sort of pride coursed through her at that. _The mysterious, harsh stranger who enjoys talking to me, but likes my kisses even more._ The thought made her want to laugh, and, though she knew it was hardly proper, only made her consider kissing him again.

The Hound’s gaze had slipped from hers for a moment, and she realised he was watching the dancefloor. A new song had begun, a soft song entwined with the warmth of Latin influence, and Sansa let out a little sigh. “Oh, I love this song.”

The grey eyes found hers then, alive with something she couldn’t place, but felt all too well. “Does the Little Bird want to dance?” He asked with a laugh, but she knew the question was serious. Sansa returned his smile, though shyly.

“Only if the Hound will lead me.” She retorted smoothly, earning another rough bark of laughter. He took her little hand in his rough one, parting the guests as he led her through. To her utter relief, Sansa saw that her parents had vacated the dancefloor, though she couldn’t be sure that she would have cared anyway. _What in seven hells is wrong with me?_ She wondered vaguely. _I put on a mask, and suddenly I’m someone new._

Suddenly, they were standing flush against each other, chest to chest as far as Sansa could reach, and the Hound had taken her hand in his, placing the other on her waist. The contact sent lightning bolts through her, and she shuddered involuntarily, silently praying that the masked man did not sense it. She had to crane her neck to look him in the eye, but all concern melted when she saw the warm darkness within them, the same one she had seen when she’d kissed him. The huge hand on her waist seemed to tighten a little, pulling her a little closer so he could murmur to her, and Sansa sucked in her breath at the feeling of his fingers through her dress.

“Joffrey’s watching us.” He rasped low, just loud enough for Sansa to hear over the song. Her stomach dropped at that, and her eyes widened at the Hound.

“ _What_? Oh, no. Oh, is he going to say something?”

She could feel the vibrations of the Hound’s laughter through the hand she’d placed on his broad shoulder. “Who cares, Little Bird? So long as you’re with me, no one will bother you. Even that empty-headed little shit will think twice about trying to tease you, when you’re with your Hound.”

_My Hound_. It seemed to sound even better when he repeated it. All of a sudden, the tall man laughed again.

“Yes, Little Bird,” he growled in her ear, “ _your_ Hound.”

Her face set aflame at that. _Oh, gods have mercy! I didn’t realise I’d said that out loud._ Still, the confirmation was satisfying, and she gave a little smile.

“How do you know Joffrey, anyway?” She asked him, eager to diffuse her own embarrassment. The Hound’s jaw clenched at that, and his smile faded somewhat.

“Ah, if I told you that, it would ruin the game.”

Sansa understood. “I see. Well, It’s clear that you don’t like him.”

The smirk returned, endearingly lopsided. “How observant of you.” He teased. “But neither do you, Little Bird.”

“No.” Sansa agreed, feeling herself acclimatise to the gentle swaying motion of their dance. “I used to, though. When I was younger. I thought myself in love with him.”

Why she was telling the Hound this, she didn’t know, but it felt better to admit her childhood folly to someone other than herself. It felt like a weight off her shoulders. 

The Hound made a noise that sounded like a scoff. “I can believe that. He’s got, what, a year on you? And he has that whole blonde thing going on. Bloody arsehole.”

Sansa let herself laugh at the Hound’s bitter tone. “Is the Hound jealous of Joff?”

He made another derisive sound. “Him? No. He’s a right prick, and even all the money in Westeros couldn’t change that.” The hand on her waist tightened again, but remained gentle. “But it might be that I envy him your affection. He never deserved it, never will.”

She let her thumb run across the length of his knuckles at that. “It doesn’t matter. Joffrey lost _my_ affection a long time ago.” Sansa let out a shamefaced laugh. “It might not even have been _him_ I liked, but the whole idea of living here, in King’s Landing.”

The Hound looked at her questioningly, a small twitch appearing in the uncovered corner of his mouth. “Oh? And why would you want to live in a stinking shithole like King’s Landing, Little Bird? I’m sure you’ve a pretty nest of your own somewhere.”

Sansa raised her brows at that. “King’s Landing isn’t all bad. I love my home, but everything here is so exciting!”

The rhythm changed slightly, and she was pulled inevitably closer to the Hound, catching a glimpse of a scandalised Joffrey over his enormous shoulder. She suppressed the urge to laugh, instead clutching the man’s hand a little tighter, trying to lose herself in the music again.

“King’s Landing’s no place for a girl like you.” The Hound was saying, with his twitching smile. “You’re too pretty, too nice. Everyone here is an insufferable twat, believe you me.”

_He’s certainly sure of himself._ Surprised yet again by her own daring, Sansa leaned a little closer, letting her expression turn wry.

“ _You’re_ not.” She pointed out, as he spun her gently again, turning her away from Joffrey. “And King’s Landing is beautiful, if you know how to look.”

“That right?” The Hound rasped, clearly amused. “Prove it.”

She threw him a determined look. “Fine. Let’s go, then.”

Sansa made to move, but the hand on her waist wouldn’t budge, and all she succeeded in doing was pushing herself even closer against her companion, as his hand moved to the small of her back. _Oh, my, what would Father say?_ But Sansa couldn’t bring herself to mind very much. 

“I’ll go, Little Bird.” She heard him rasp in her ear, his face closer than ever. “But not yet. Let’s just stay a while. Like this.”  
Sansa understood, and had no inclination to argue, willing to stay as long as he wanted, being held close.

_My secret can wait._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, you just read Chapter 7. Or, as I call it, Cake and Cuteness. [Uh oh, looks like Arya and Gendry are in for it. But fear not, intrepid readers: the SanSan grows stronger. Mwahahaha!]
> 
> I'm getting the impression that this is becoming a bit boring. I'd really like your opinions, tips and points of improvement alike, because, well, I aim to please ;D So I'd be so grateful if you'd leave a constructive comment? Thanks again, and thank you for reading! <3


	8. Illumination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned is confronted with Arya's misbehaviour, and Sandor is let in on the Little Bird's secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caution: Over-exposure to sweet cuteness can cause tooth decay, heart palpitations, and SanSan-related hyperventilation. Do not exceed recommended dose. If symptoms persist, consult fellow fangirls.

[NED’S POV]

“I expect you to _do_ something, Robert!”

Cersei was shouting now, her cheeks flushed scarlet beneath the ebony mask she wore. Her husband watched her with bleary eyes, trying unsuccessfully to suppress the drunken hiccup that overtook him in that moment.

“What would you have me do, Cersei?” Robert asked, glaring at the blonde woman with as much anger that his less-than-sober state could manage. “Call the bloody police? Don’t overreact, woman.”

Ned shifted uncomfortably where he stood, in the cavernous kitchen of the great house. He had entered at Cersei’s bidding, apprehensively anticipating something bad. And, sure enough, it had been delivered to him, in the form of his younger daughter, covered head to toe in cake. _Whatever will I do with her?_

Cersei bristled at Robert’s retort, flicking her long golden hair from her shoulder in irritation. “I’m not ‘overreacting’. These three- “ she tossed her head in disdain at the three young people stood in a line before them, staring at the floor and clothes stained in icing, “entered _our_ home, and vandalised it.”

Arya looked up at that, and Ned saw the defiance in her eyes. _Don’t, Arya,_ he cautioned her internally, but the girl spoke up anyway.

“It was _me_ that started it!” Arya exclaimed, the stubborn frown she always wore creasing her brow. “It wasn’t Gendry and Hot Pie’s fault. Don’t blame them. I can clean this up-“

The woman scoffed at that. “You’ve done enough. As to your friends, they will be leaving tonight _without_ pay, and if the two of you think your company will still be afloat after this escapade, you are severely mistaken. My father will see to that.”

The boys, Gendry and Hot Pie, seemed to pale at Cersei’s words, but neither of them said a thing, not daring to look up from their shoes. _They’re just boys, really_ , Ned thought to himself as he gave his daughter a grave look. _They got carried away. By Arya, no less._ “I don’t think there’s any need to get Tywin involved-“

Ned’s remark was met by a green glare. “Is that what you _think_ , Mr Stark? Well, _I_ think you had better learn to control your own children. You’ve quite the brood, if I recall, and no doubt the others will soon be corrupted by this miscreant.” She pointed violently at Arya, who merely glared in reply.

_She speaks of controlling children_ , the man mused heatedly, _but if everything I’ve heard about Joffrey is true, she ought to heed her own advice._ Ned had never liked Cersei Lannister, and now, with the light glinting in her narrowed eyes and golden hair as she looked at him in poorly veiled contempt, he was sure his opinion was not about to change for the better.

A small guffaw sounded from beside them, from where Robert was leaning heavily against the counter, taking a sip from his short glass filled with some amber liquid. “’Miscreant’, is it?” He laughed again at his wife’s words, passing an unfocused glance over the three accused. “All I see is a girl. Ned’s girl, no less, so mind your tongue, woman.”

Cersei was about to spit a reply when Robert interrupted her , standing up straight and walking over to the young men. “And these two... well, they’re only boys. Bloody stupid boys, I’ll admit, but boys all the same. I was guilty of my fair share of stupidity when I was their age, though it didn’t often involve cake. I’m sure you’ll remember, Ned.”

Ned gave his oldest friend a small smile at that, as the memories resurfaced. “Aye, I don’t think I’ll be forgetting any time soon.”

Robert roared in laughter, one that rendered his face an even deeper shade of red. “Ah, I bet you won’t, you sly old bastard. Still,” he frowned at the older boy, Gendry, whose gaze was still shamefully averted. “What did you think you were doing, boy?”

It took a few tense moments for Gendry to find it in himself to answer. “I don’t know, sir.” 

Robert looked at him, almost thoughtful. “I daresay you didn’t. What’s your name, boy?”

“Gendry. Gendry Waters. _Sir_.” He added, as a hasty afterthought, though to Ned the title sounded almost embittered.

The drunk man’s frown deepened at that. “Waters...yes. It’s your mother’s company, isn’t it?”

The young man nodded, his black hair falling into his eyes slightly. “Yes. Kayte Waters.”

Another silence fell, finally punctuated by Cersei’s sigh of frustration. “Robert, if you have the faintest _shred_ of backbone, get them out of my sight _this instant_. Or I’ll do it myself.”

Her husband largely ignored her, still looking at Gendry with an unreadable expression. “Hmph. Kayte...” He took another sip of his drink. “You’ll have your pay tonight, boy, so long as you clean up this bloody mess. Am I clear?”

At first Gendry didn’t seem to understand, his mouth hanging open in shock. Then he grasped it, his jaw tightening, and he gave a terse nod. Ned could see the relief in his eyes. _One disaster averted, at least._ Why Robert had spared them the shame of leaving the party without their wages, he didn’t know... and yet he was glad for it, partly for the boys’ sake, and partly because of the look of pure horror on Cersei’s face.

“You absolute _coward_.” She told her husband, voice shaking in fury. “Are you sure you have anything between your legs? If Jaime were here, he would have thrown these sorry fools out on their backsides before you could say ‘fired’.”

Robert rounded on her, rage apparent in his narrowed eyes. “Your bloody brother and his bloated ego aren’t here. This is my house just as much as yours, and I’ll do as I see fit.”

In a snarl of utter fury, Cersei wheeled out of the kitchen, her high heels clicking menacingly down the hallway and out of earshot. Ned exhaled a soft sigh of relief, one mirrored by his daughter. _If she thinks she’s off the hook, she’s sorely mistaken._ But as he looked at Arya, with her hair all mussed and a spot of pink frosting on the tip of her nose, Ned could feel his anger ebbing away a little. _Cat won’t be pleased, though._

“We’d best rejoin the party, Ned.” Robert was saying, patting his friend on the shoulder with a clumsy hand. “Your girl should come too, unless she wants to clean up.”

Arya looked at her father, her grey eyes wide, and Ned immediately knew the answer. “I think she’d better stay in here and help.” He replied, letting his voice grow icy and stern, making Arya’s mouth twitch with a suppressed smile. _She knows I’m not angry. Gods, I’ve grown far too soft with her._ “Besides, Cat would have a fit if she saw her with all that icing on her face.   
Best take care of that too, _young lady_.”

Robert chuckled, turning and leading Ned from the kitchen. He had just a moment to see Arya mouthing a _’thank you’_ , before he was walking down the corridor.

“It’s been too long, Ned.” Robert was saying, his voice slightly slurred. “You should come down here more often. Old Jon’s been asking after you.”

It had been years since Ned last saw Jon Arryn, and he thought of him with a fond smile. “You know Cat would move down here in a heartbeat.” He told Robert as they re-entered the crowed ballroom, straining to be heard above the noise. “But I’ve always loved Winterfell too much. It’s home.”

Robert gave a small laugh. “Aye, I know your weird love for that frozen wasteland. Sometimes I miss the old days, Ned, the days where we could walk into any bar and pick up girls.” The man laughed again, and patted his stomach, which had grown rather more rotund than when Ned had last seen him. “Hells, I miss the days I could fit through the bloody _doors_!”

Ned laughed himself at that one. He too missed his younger days, the ones where his back didn’t ache in the morning and the walk to work wasn’t such a tiring prospect. “You’ll have to come up to Winterfell again sometime. It’s Sansa’s twentieth birthday in a few month’s time, we’re having a get together. I’m sure Cat will be delighted if you came up.” _Well, perhaps more so if your wife stayed behind._

“Gods, Ned, don’t tell me that.” Robert leaned against a column, shaking his head with a smile. “Little Sansa, almost twenty? It was only yesterday she was playing hide-and-seek with Myrcella! We’re old men now, Eddard Stark.”

“I suppose we are.” The thought was uncomfortable, and Ned looked around the room, trying to discern his family. Robb, of course, was nowhere in sight, and Sansa had been elusive all evening, which troubled him somewhat. _What was it Arya said? Something about her sister talking with an older man?_

Robert gave a snort of annoyance, dragging Ned from his thoughts. He was glaring at the doors, which confused him greatly. “Seven hells, I hire bloody security, and they piss off as they please.” Ned realised the doorway was unmanned for the first time in the evening, and finally understood. “Where is Oakheart? Or Clegane, that ugly bastard, he can’t have gone far without someone noticing. What am I _paying_ them for?”

Robert suddenly swayed to the left, stumbling onto the floor and landing on his backside. A few guests turned to stare, and Ned froze, knowing how his friend’s anger could be incited by such small details when drunk.

To his relief, Robert simply laughed heartily, his face growing redder by the minute as Ned helped him on his feet again. “I’m a drunk old fool, Ned. You’re too sober to be seen with me.”

Ned would have laughed in response, had a flash of purple across the room not caught his eye. _Sansa_. She was going out of the far door, towards the entrance hall. _Where is she going?_ The idea that his daughter would leave the party bothered him greatly.

But not as much as the man who followed her like a hulking shadow.

 

[SANDOR’S POV]

 

She led him from the ballroom, her small hand in his as they made their way through the dim corridors that led to the main door   
of the manor. Sandor froze at the sight of them, pulling her to a sudden halt.

“What’s wrong?” The Little Bird asked, turning to give him an enquiring stare through her mask. Her eyes were bright with excitement, and he felt suddenly disappointed that he had stopped.

“We can’t leave the house.” He told her simply, without elaboration. _We can’t leave, because I know who you are, and that your absence will be noted. And I can’t leave for the same reason, though my absence will be a different matter._ Sandor couldn’t risk inciting the Baratheons’ anger; he _needed_ this job.

To his surprise, the young woman chimed a laugh. “Oh, we’re not going outside. Come on, I’ll show you.”

Confused, he let her drag him along the corridor into the entrance hall, realising she was making a left turn. They were headed for the stairs, and sure enough, she was running up them, hitching up the skirts of her dress with one hand, not letting go of his fingers for a moment. A sudden wariness came over Sandor, as he scanned the shadows of the upper floors. _Where in seven hells is she going?_ She had said something about showing him King’s Landing, but without leaving the party, Sandor had no clue as to how she meant to do it. _Crazy Little Bird._

But he followed her regardless.

He knew every room and hallway of the huge house; he had worked here for years. Yet what bemused him was how _she_ knew the way, leading him through the darkened corridors, pausing every so often to throw him a smile half-concealed in shadow. Sandor watched her hungrily, wondering where she was going, but at the same time not caring at all, all too aware of her hand in his. 

“Where are you taking me, Little Bird?” He asked lightly, as they rounded another corner.

“You’ll see.” The young woman breathed, pausing abruptly in front of a door. In the dark, Sandor heard the handle turn, _click_ , and suddenly a draught hit them as the door swung open. The Little Bird stepped inside, fumbling for the light switch.

When she found it, they were greeted by the sight of a large room. Right in the centre, a stone’s throw away, stood a four-poster bed, covered in deep crimson sheets. He gulped heavily, a sudden sweat breaking on his palms, but his mouth curled into a smile.

“Is the Little Bird trying to get me into bed?” He teased, though there was genuine excitement behind the words. _At this rate, she won’t have to try very hard._ Sandor let his arm snake about her shoulder, pulling her a little closer and revelling in the embarrassment he could practically _feel_ radiating from her. “I’m game if you are.”

With a small cry, the redhead turned the switch again, rendering the bedroom a mere shadow as she stepped back into the hallway. Even in the dark, Sandor knew she was blushing.

“Wrong door.” She admitted sheepishly, taking his hand again, though this time it was tentative. The desire had been plain in his voice, and though Sandor didn’t regret it, he silently hoped it wouldn’t ruin things. “It’s this way.”

She walked back along the corridor, stopping at the next door, opening it again. It all seemed to him like some odd, repetitive dream, in the half-light of the upper floor. “I think this is the right one.”

When it opened, the young woman found the lightswitch, flicking the illumination into life. Before them was a small staircase, twisting upwards and out of sight. He heard her let out a breathy laugh, before she made for the stairs, alighting them with a speed he would not have guessed she could manage. “Come on!”

Sandor tailed her as they ascended, the door shrinking away as the flight of stairs turned and spiralled, until they reached yet another door. _I’ve never been up here before_. The thought was a little unnerving, but the sight of his guide breathing heavily and smiling before him made all questions flee his mind.

The girl opened it without difficulty, and they were greeted by a cold breeze, reaching in and entwining itself in the Little Bird’s auburn tresses. Sandor watched hungrily for a few moments, before he realised she had stepped out, and he was not far behind.  
She had led him to a small balcony nestled amid the slate rooftops of the mansion, looking out over the city. It was then that he grasped her meaning.

“See?” The redhead asked, her lovely mouth turned upward in a grin that set her blue eyes to sparkling. “Isn’t it beautiful?” 

King’s Landing sprawled before them, aglow amid the veil of night. Streetlamps shone like candlelight along the faint webs of the roadways, and the hills rose up beyond them. On one, the Great Sept of Baelor stood as proud as it had for hundreds of years, made miniature by the sheer height of the house’s vantage point. On the other hill, the Dragon Pit’s ominous shadow beckoned, not quite as old as its counterpart, the last remaining testament to the Targaryan family's business legacy. _They kept the bloody casino._ Sandor mused, looking at it with a wry smile. _The only useful thing they ever built._

He had to admit that the city looked picturesque, high above the noise and bustle of the street. Sandor barely recognised most of the buildings. Perhaps he had stopped noticing things around him, in all his years in the Baratheons’ employ. _Or maybe I’m just distracted._

In the glow from the world below them, the Little Bird grew somehow more stunning a sight, her hair burning, the only fire he would ever want to touch. Her smile was bathed in warm light as she looked out over the streets with a contented sigh.

“Beautiful.” He agreed, not taking his eyes from her. _It’s no lie._

She smiled in response, not looking away from the view. “You’re probably wondering how I knew my way up here.”

Sandor was wondering about a lot of things in that moment, but that wasn’t one of them. _Calm yourself, dog._ “It crossed my mind.”

The blue eyes found his then, alive with a happiness Sandor had long forgotten. _Or maybe I never knew._ “I’ve been to the Red Manor before. I won’t tell you _why_ , because it will give the game away, but I was here long enough to learn about this little secret.” She gave a girlish giggle at that. “Promise you won’t tell?”

“Your secret’s safe with me.” Sandor promised, taking a step forward, deliberately slowly. _I won’t be telling anybody that I spent the evening on the rooftop with a beautiful girl, all alone and utterly out of choice. Because they won’t fucking believe me._

The Little Bird seemed to sense his intentions, or perhaps just grew emboldened away from prying eyes, for she matched his steps. “Will you tell me your name?” She asked, as she approached languidly. “Before the night is out?”

_You don’t want to know my name, Little Bird. Not ever._ “I might.” He answered, unwilling to lie outright. “If I feel like it.”

A soft smile curled her lips at that, now close enough for him to reach out and touch. “And what do you feel like doing now?” She asked gently.

_I want to take you, Little Bird, until you scream loud enough for the whole of King’s Landing to hear, until you forget your own name._ But that wasn’t what she wanted to hear. 

“I want to kiss you, Little Bird.” Sandor told her simply, taking her hand and pulling her closer. “Like this.”

He captured her lips suddenly, before she had time to reply, and he felt her sigh in contentment against his mouth. Emboldened, he reached a hand behind her head, gently holding her there and deepening the kiss. The Little Bird met him with no resistance, her eyes fluttering closed and her arms finding their way about his neck, pulling him closer, until she was pressed against him, so much so that he could feel her heartbeat against his chest...

He was sure he felt it stop when the door swung open behind them, pooling light across their entwined forms. They pulled away swiftly, too late. Whoever it was had seen them, and Sandor waited for what would came, not even daring to breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I updated! You can't get rid of me that easily ;D
> 
> Ned being cute and overprotective again. N'aawh. Gendry and Arya got off the hook pretty easily! (Or did they)? And I left another cruel, cruel cliffhanger for you. I regret nothing. Mwahaha.
> 
> Oh, and the SanSan? Get ready for tooth-rot, intrepid readers. You have been warned. [I regret everything].
> 
> I'd really appreciate comments, if you'd be so kind as to leave me your thoughts! I get the feeling this isn't all that great, but I guess it's because this was really just for fun while my other stories are a bit more serious. But I'd love to know what you guys think!
> 
> Thanks again for reading! :3


	9. Bittersweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More than one private moment between the Little Bird and the Hound is intruded upon, though some consequences may be irreparable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caution: Feels.

[SANSA’S POV]

“Oh... sorry.” The figure mumbled, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other in the doorway. “I just wondered who was up here.”

Sansa peered a little closer at the intruder, the light from the stairway blinding her for a few moments. She took in golden hair, and bright green eyes, and her heart almost stopped. _Joffrey._

But then she realised that the person in question was much shorter than Joffrey, and plumper. Sansa relaxed a little, still tightly bound in the Hound’s strong arms, to both her amusement and her dismay.

“I’ll go back downstairs...” Tommen Baratheon said uncertainly, giving them both an uneasy look. _Oh, gods, don’t let him tell Joffrey where we are._ Sansa prayed in panic. _Or worse, his mother._

Before Tommen could backtrack, the Hound lurched forward, holding the boy’s arm in a grip that stopped him dead. “Did you see something up here, boy?” He rasped quietly, so much so that Sansa barely heard him. The sudden absence of the arms about her shoulders made her cold, and she hugged herself in nervous silence.

Tommen looked up at the Hound with wide eyes behind his blue mask. “...Yes.” He answered uncertainly, obviously misunderstanding the huge man’s tone. _The poor boy thinks the he wanted an honest answer._ A small part of Sansa wondered if the lad was familiar with the Hound’s hatred of lying, until she recalled that he knew Joffrey. _Logic dictates that he knows Tommen as well, however briefly._

The Hound’s face seemed to harden at that. “What did you see?”

Tommen’s green eyes flickered to Sansa, unsettled, but she offered him a small smile of encouragement. He was only around Bran’s age, only fifteen at the most, and he seemed younger than most boys his age. Sansa felt a little sorry for him, being growled at by her fierce Hound.

“I saw you...” His eyes dropped to his shoes. “ _Kissing_ her.”

The Hound suddenly bent down, until he was at eye level with Tommen. The young man was startled, trying to step back, but his arm was held fast. “Let me tell you what you saw here, boy.” The tall man said menacingly, making goosebumps prickle on Sansa’s bare skin. “ _Nothing_. Now, tell me what you saw again.”

Tommen gulped, not daring to even blink. “...Nothing?” He offered, the word breaking with his nerves. The Hound nodded once, standing upright again and releasing the boy’s arm.

“That’s bloody right.” The man rasped. “ _Nothing_. Now, away with you, I want to continue doing _nothing_ with the lady here.”

Tommen nodded quickly, stepping backward and inside with an expression that was almost comical. “O-of course. Enjoy your evening, Clegane.”

He disappeared in a whirl of blonde hair, and the Hound let out a growl of frustration aimed at the empty doorway. “Damn boy can’t keep his fucking mouth shut.”

Sansa raised her chin, a wry smile making its way across her face as she approached him slowly. “Is that right, _Mr Clegane_?” She asked amusedly, stepping around the Hound so that she was facing him. _Clegane, Clegane._ The surname echoed in her mind for some reason. _Where have I heard that name before?_ “Do you want to stay up here with me and do _nothing_?”

The grey eyes seemed to darken, but whether in disapproval or desire, Sansa didn’t know. She shivered involuntarily. 

“More than anything.” The Hound rumbled in reply, the uncovered side of his face pulling upward in a lopsided grin that only made her heart thrum in her chest. “ _Miss Stark._ ”

The name hung in the air between them, and Sansa let out a noise that lay somewhere between a gasp of surprise and a hiss of disapproval. She narrowed her eyes at him, though the expression was dulled somewhat by the fact that she had to crane her neck to do so. “How long have you known?

He let out a throaty chuckle. “All bloody night, Little Bird. I saw you come in with your family.”

Irritated that he should have been playing a game... well, during _their_ game, Sansa crossed her arms and frowned. “So you know who I am? That’s hardly fair.”

The Hound pulled an arm around her waist, making her breath escape her for a few heartbeats. “I know that you’re Ned Stark’s daughter.” He confided with a smirk. “I know that you’ve been to King’s Landing before. I know you love lemoncakes, and I know that you used to be madly in love with Joffrey bloody Baratheon.”

Pouting, Sansa made to interrupt him, but he silenced her with a finger on her lips. “And I know that you’re the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen, Little Bird.” His voice was low, a deep timbre of longing, and Sansa had never been so touched nor so speechless in her entire life.

Thankfully, she didn’t have to think of a reply, as the Hound dipped his head to steal her lips in a kiss. This one was more heated than the last, an urgent gesture that seemed almost desperate on his part. His hand had found its way to the nape of her neck, holding her closer and running the thumb of his other hand across her cheekbone, as though determining she was in fact _there_. Sighing in relief against his lips, Sansa gave herself to the exchange, pressing her palms against his chest to steady herself. 

At the contact, the Hound growled low in his throat as he had the first time they had kissed. _Was that merely an hour or so ago?_ Sansa wondered vaguely as their kiss deepened, making her skin burn with every touch he gave. _It feels like forever._

It was only when the Hound pulled away sharply that she realised her hands had wandered; they were resting on the strong plains of his stomach, taut even beneath the fabric of his dress shirt. Her face was aflame, though this time not with embarrassment, but with a hungering need that she had never anticipated. _What is the matter with me?_ For a moment, Sansa just looked up at the Hound, without saying a word, and utterly at a loss as to who she had become that night.

“We ought to get back, Little Bird.” He told her, though his voice was reluctant. “You’ll be missed.” But his gaze had slid to her hands, still resting on the front of his shirt, and she saw him gulp dryly. She pulled her hands back to her sides swiftly, giving a tense nod.

“Alright.” She answered hoarsely, letting him lead her from the balcony with a strange sense of disappointment. It was frustrating that the Hound knew more about her than she had previously thought, but she felt she could have almost forgiven that, alone on the roof as he kissed her. _I’ll not give him the upper hand,_ she concluded slyly as they began their descent to the ballroom in companionable silence. 

_I’ll learn a secret of his, somehow._

 

[SANDOR’S POV]

He was still grinning to himself when they rejoined the party, despite the unbearable babble of the crowd and the din of the orchestra from their stand across the great room. The Little Bird threw him a small glance, but returned his smile, only adding to his contentment. _Enjoy it while it lasts, dog. She likes you now, but only because she can’t see what a hideous hound you truly are._

“You look hungry.” The young woman said aloud, breaking him from his reflections. “Let’s go to the dessert table.”

 _I’d rather have another taste of you, Little Bird,_ Sandor thought wryly. _But this time, I’ll have every last lovely inch of you._ His mouth almost watered at the thought.

“If you want.” He said, defeated by the look of excitement in her blue eyes. _Of course she’d have a sweet tooth._ It went without saying, judging by her sunny disposition. She was everything he was not, and it made him want her more. It seemed to Sandor, much to his bemusement, that the broken parts of him could be mended simply by her kisses, her smiles, her caress. And he had a lot of broken pieces.

“Mother is _always_ telling me I eat too many desserts.” The Little Bird chirped cheerfully at him, as they made their way to the back wall of the room where the food was arranged. “Lemoncakes, honeycakes, butterfly cakes. Ooh, and chocolate cake.”

He could have watched her talk about cake forever, the way her face lit up and a smile settled upon her lips. _Hells, I don’t even bloody like cake._ She was dragging him regardless, chattering away prettily over the noise of the other guests, and he stole sideways glances at her. _Remember tonight,_ he told himself sternly. _Make it last a little while longer._

A hand found his shoulder then, making him stop dead, wheeling around to find the interrupter in agitation. The Little Bird froze beside him, still clinging to his arm.

“There you are, dog!” Joffrey exclaimed, a vicious smile on his puffed-up lips. He could sense the redhead tense beside him. Sandor barely resisted the urge to deck the blonde youth where he stood. “I was wondering where you disappeared to.” The green eyes slid to the girl on his arm, and Joffrey let out a high boyish laugh.

“And Sansa too!” He added with a smirk. “Isn’t this nice?”

 _Sansa._ So that was her name, the beautiful girl who looked as though she wanted to sink into the floor where she stood. _Sansa Stark. Lovely Sansa, the Little Bird._

“Hello again, Joffrey.” Sansa replied, with a half-hearted smile. Her grip on his arm tightened, and Joffrey noticed the movement, his malicious gaze settling on the contact between them.

“Ha!” The boy exclaimed, flashing pearly teeth. “Well, look at that. Margaery, come here.” He turned and pulled the brunette towards him, almost making her spill her cocktail from its glass. _Drink it down, girl_ , Sandor thought bitterly. _You’re stuck with this shit all night, and I’m bloody sure that’s not something you want to experience sober._

“Look, Margaery,” Joffrey continued, snaking an arm about the young woman’s bare shoulders, “my dog’s found himself a bitch for the night.”

Before he could stop himself, before he could _think_ , Sandor stepped forward with a death glare. It was only the pressure of the Little Bird’s arm through his that prevented him from throttling Joffrey then and there, instantly losing his job and any chance of getting hired in King’s Landing ever again. Joffrey’s eyes still widened in fear, however, and Sandor sneered.

“You watch your mouth.” He rasped vehemently, teeth bared in barely suppressed rage. The blonde boy seemed taken aback by the outburst, but quickly shook it off, his surprised expression melting into one of forced mirth.

“Drunk again, most like.” Joffrey told the girl beside him, who merely smiled falsely in response. “Still, that doesn’t explain why you’re tailing the dog, Sansa. What would your father have to say about that, I wonder?”

He hit a nerve with that remark; Sansa looked shocked, and more than a little terrified, by those words. “I...”

She was spared the need to form a reply by the painful sound of a microphone’s screeching, and every face in the room turned towards the bandstand. Robert Baratheon stood swaying on the stage, well and truly drunk by now, and beetroot red in the face. _Never thought I’d be pleased to see him, the bloody drunk bastard._

“I’d like to thank- hic!- everyone for coming tonight.” The millionaire’s speech was slurred and laboured, but everyone remained respectfully silent on the host’s behalf. “I hope you’ve all had a taste o’ the wine, because I paid a bloody fortune for it. Bottles of expensive piss, in my opinion, but it’s all for a good cause.” Mr Baratheon’s eyes narrowed in thought at that. “What was the cause again? Oh, right, some sort of la-dee-dah good-deeding in Flea Bottom or wherever. Well, whatever it’s for, I think I can safely say everyone’s enjoyed themselves.”

The guests all raised their glasses at that one, shouting cries of agreement, and even Sandor had to agree with the drunken man. _Though it wasn’t the wine that did it._

“So, without further ado,” Robert held out his arm, seemingly squinting down at the watch on his wrist, “and seeing as it’s midnight, all the masks will be coming off. Then we’ll have a toast, and I’ll let you folk get on with getting pissed as newts.”

A cold dread spread its fingers along Sandor’s spine at that, and he seemed locked into place, staring at the stage even when Robert Baratheon had stumbled off and out of sight. Behind him, he was vaguely aware of Joffrey’s laughter, high and grating.

The arm linked in his beckoned for him to turn around. Reluctantly, his limbs like lead, he turned to face the Little Bird. Sansa Stark looked up at him, concern marring her beautiful eyes. “Is everything alright?”

Joffrey laughed again, giving Sandor a sly grin. “Oh, he’s fine. Come on, dog, play the game. Mother won’t be happy to hear you’ve not been doing as you’re told, now will she?”

 _Fuck you and your bitch mother._ He wanted to snap the boy’s neck, and he could do it easily, right there in the middle of the party. _No one would miss him, arrogant little cunt._ His heartbeat was hammering in his ears, and Sandor scanned the room, looking for the door, but everything was a chaos of smiling, masked faces. Around him, the voices had begun to count down.

“Ten! Nine! Eight!”

The hand had moved on his arm now, a cautionary gesture, though by now the Little Bird was giving him a nervous smile. _She thinks this is the end of her game._

“Seven! Six! Five!”

“I’m game if you are.” Sansa told him, mirroring his words from not an hour before, trying to make him laugh. He’d never felt so far removed from laughing for years.

“Four! Three! Two!”

He couldn’t do it. “Listen, Little Bird-“

“One!”

She couldn’t hear him over the sheer noise, dainty fingers pulling the mask from her face in a matter of deft movements. And suddenly her face was bared before him, more beautiful than ever. Looking at her felt like swallowing the sun.

Suddenly, Sandor felt a weight press under the mask, between it and his cheekbone. It was wrenched away before he could react, clattering to the floor in a way that seemed deafening, though it made no sound at all.

And then he could feel their eyes upon him, _her_ eyes, taking in every ridge and scar of the ruin that was his face. 

For a moment, he did nothing, just stood there like the gargoyle he was. _Let her look,_ he thought bitterly. _Let her see what comes of a head full of stories._

“See, Sansa?” Joffrey was saying, though his voice seemed far away. Sandor did not even look up, still staring at the black mask at his feet. “Isn’t he a handsome old dog?”

That did it. His eyes snapped up to find hers, wide and unreadable, staring straight back at him in silence.

“Are you happy now?” Sandor asked her, his voice no more than a hoarse growl. “This what you wanted to see?” He let himself sneer at that, a bitter sound rising from his throat. “I hope you enjoyed playing your little game, girl. You fucking win.”

He left them behind without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ouch.
> 
>  
> 
> Mwahaha.


	10. Recommendations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya can't believe her luck, while Sansa remains in shock. And a late arrival complicates matters.

Debutante: CH10

[Arya's POV]

"Why the hells did he let you off?"

Gendry's eyes found hers for a moment, distant, before sliding away. "I have no idea."

Her knees were aching and her hands smelt of floor cleaner, but Arya couldn't help but smile to herself as she continued her task of cleaning the kitchen floor. She wrung out the cloth into a bucket, the last of the cake icing turning the water within a milky hue. _We were lucky on that part._

"I don't care _why_ Mr Baratheon let us get away with it." Hot Pie interjected, leaning against the mop in his hands. "I'm just glad he did."

Arya felt her brow crease at that. She was unsatisfied with not knowing, curious as she was. "Maybe it has something to do with the favour he owes your mother." She suggested to Gendry, who merely shrugged, still wiping down the kitchen counters in silence. 

"Maybe." Was all she got in reply, the blue eyes meeting her face for a fraction of a second. Behind her, Hot Pie heaved a sigh.

"Seriously, I can't take much more of this."

Arya turned to look at him, a little annoyed at his complaint. "It's just _cleaning_." She told him sternly. "Don't be such a baby."

The plump boy reddened at that, but narrowed his eyes nonetheless. "Not _that_." He insisted. " _You two_."

Gendry looked up at that, with an irritated expression. "'Us two'...?"

Hot Pie rolled his eyes, turning back to his task. "Yeah, you two. _Looking_ at each other all the time. Just kiss already and be done with it."

Arya froze, anger and slight embarrassment rising in her throat, reducing her words to babble. " _W-what?_ Why in seven hells would I miss _Gendry_ , for gods' sake?"

To her surprise, Gendry looked at her at those words. He seemed almost... _offended_. "Hey! What's so wrong with me?"

Arya faltered, utterly confused. She was biting her lip like she always did when she was at a loss for words, something her mother was always scolding her for. " _Nothing._ " She told him with a glare. "You're just... not my type."

Both Gendry and Hot Pie seemed intrigued by that, much to her dismay. "Oh?" The elder boy challenged, with a crooked grin. "And what type would _that_ be?"

Arya could give no answer. She hadn't ever really thought about it. _Sansa is the one with her head in a lovesong, not me._ Dropping her eyes to the floor, she picked up the bucket and washcloth."What's it to you? Mind your own business, you stupid."

" _Touchy_." Gendry mocked, though his grin was lighthearted. Hot Pie scoffed.

"Bickering like an old married couple." He mused, shaking his head. "Well, I'll just leave you two lovebirds alone. I need to get more bleach."

He left the two of them alone in the kitchen, Arya scowling, Gendry smirking at her from across the counter island.

"Come on, Arya, lighten up. It was just a joke."

She had known that. Why else would Gendry have held any interest in her love life? _Boys really are stupid._

"I know." She retorted sullenly, giving the young man a look. He merely smiled wider, and in the end she relented, the corners of her mouth twitching up into a grin.

_Just a joke_ , Arya reminded herself. 

But for one incomprehensible moment, she wished it hadn't been.

 

[Sansa's POV]

 

His face had shocked her.

One side had consisted of the same features she had discerned beneath his mask; the pale cheeks, broad mouth, intense steel-grey eyes. But she had not anticipated the rest.

_Burned._ Sansa did not know when it happened, or _how_ , but it could not be hidden in any way, not with his face bared before her. Deep ridges of scar tissue marred the other side, the side that had been covered, charred and painful to see. One of his ears was almost completely missing, and the flesh glistened red and raw in the light of the ballroom.

And he had _growled_ at her, his fury frightening. _My Hound, snarling at me._ She tried to find some solace in the imagery, but all thought of mirth died in her mind when she saw the look in his dark eyes; burning anger, confusion, and above all, a deep, aching sort of loss. 

_Loss of what?_ The answer wasn't clear to her, and she had watched in silence as the huge man stormed away, parting the crowd effortlessly as they avoided his stare.

And then she was aware of someone _laughing_. Joffrey was still there, chortling cruelly to himself to the point where he was clutching at his sides. Sansa considered kicking him there, but managed to restrain herself. _It's not polite to kick people._ That was something Arya would do.

"Why did you do that?" She demanded instead, her voice raising a little in her own anger. The small green eyes opened to look at her, tears of laughter glistening there.

"Do what?"

Sansa gritted her teeth, summoning her remaining composure as best she could. " _Take his mask off._ He didn't want to, and you knew it. That was cruel of you."

Joff seemed taken aback at her outburst, but disbelief soon turned to anger. "This is _my house_ , Sansa. I can do as I please, so spare me your empty-headed whining." He threw her a sour grin. "And besides, what's Clegane to you? He's just one of my father's bodyguards, and he's far too old."

_Older than you, you mean._ With a repulsion she had never before felt for another human being, Sansa narrowed her eyes at the blonde boy.

"He's been kind to me." _He said he liked talking to me. He spared me your company for the evening. He kissed me._

Joffrey scoffed, a sound somehow even uglier than his personality. "Clegane isn't _kind_ to anyone. If he's been spewing pleasantries at a stupid girl like you, it's because he wants to fuck you."

Her head swam at that. Could it be true? She managed to give Joffrey a cool look. "Enjoy the rest of your night, Joffrey." Turning on her heel, she made for the door she had seen the Hound leave through, aware of the young man shouting behind her in his shrill voice.

"Where are you going?"

_Away from you,_ she thought sharply. _To find the Hound, and say something to him. Anything._

She thought again of the look in his eyes, the one that made her heart heavy with sadness. Despite Joffrey's words, though, she had a feeling she knew what it was the man had lost, at least in his own mind.

_Me._

 

[Sandor's POV]

 

In the quiet of the Red Manor's manicured front lawn, half-shrouded in shadow, he fumbled for the call icon on his phone, lifting it to his ear with a trembling hand.

"Hello?" The voice at the end of the call sounded weary, as though Sandor had woken him from his sleep. He found he did not care, passing a sticky palm over his eyes.

"It's me." His voice was still taut from anger. Anger at Joffrey for pulling the mask from his face. Anger at the Little Bird for her silence. Anger at himself, for walking away.

"Sandor." The Elder Brother's voice seemed to brighten at that, though Sandor greatly suspected that it was due to surprise. "Is everything alright?"

"No." He rasped, before he could move to hang up. "Not really. You said if I felt like drinking, I could call."

"I did." The man's voice agreed without hesitation. "And you feel like drinking right now?"

Sandor laughed bitterly. "I feel like fucking drowning myself in the stuff."

A sigh at the end of the phone. "How many drinks have you had today?"

_How the bloody hells does he know?_ Sandor didn't bother to ask, simply grateful he hadn't had to admit it himself. "Two. But not for the reasons you think."

"A social drink, then?" The monk's tone was expectant, and he knew better than to lie.

"Yes. With a woman." _Nineteen years old, and too bloody perfect._ He thought of the look in her blue eyes, unreadable. Sandor had to commend her composure in the face of such obvious disgust. _To look at her, you'd think she didn't mind._ But that was a lie, he knew it.

"I see." The Elder Brother's voice remained patient, but neutral throughout. "Does this young lady have something to do with your current state of mind, Sandor?"

Another sigh, this one from his own chest, weary. "Yes." _She saw my face, and she didn't say a word._ No gasps of horror, no screaming, granted; but silence seemed somehow worse. It meant he didn't know where he stood.

_I doubt I stand anywhere, now. Not after growling at her like I did._

"Did she make some comment that offended you?" The Elder Brother asked, not trying to be tentative. For that Sandor was grateful; he hated people who failed to get to the point. 

_No. Not my polite little bird, chirping her courtesies._ "No."

"Did she seem intimidated by your appearance?" 

"No." The word was barely more than a gruff breath. _She didn't seem anything at all, except mute._

He could almost hear the monk's confused grown with his next words. "Did she spurn your advances?"

Feather-light lips seemed to cover his own as he thought of her, _Sansa_. She had made the first advance, and he had made one of his own. She had not fled, had not sent him away in disgrace. _I'd have offered her more, but she's a shy little thing. She's pout her pretty lips at me._ It took all he had not to moan at the thought. Sandor didn't want to have to explain _that_ to the Elder Brother.

"Then I fail to understand your predicament, Sandor." The man told him honestly. "This woman did not appear to cause you any harm, and nor does she seem to be offended by you in any way."

An explanation required more words than he was willing to give. The Elder Brother seemed to understand, however, for he broke the heavy silence.

"You don't need to hide behind alcohol." He told him simply. Sandor grit his teeth at that, anger flickering through his chest.

"I am _not_ hiding." He retorted roughly, his voice carrying across the darkness.

"Oh, but you are." The voice said, so softly Sandor barely heard it. "And if you won't see that, I cannot help you."

His words rang in his head. _Hiding._ He supposed he had, almost; cowering behind the façade the little bird had made for him, the idea of being her loyal Hound. Sandor had enjoyed it so much he'd forgotten that it was true; that he was _hiding_.

"Fine." Sandor heard himself rasp, thoughts distant. "I'll not keep you up any bloody longer."

Despite the challenging tone, the Elder Brother's voice was level as ever. "Make good choices, Sandor."

The call ended abruptly, and he was alone again, standing in the night like a lonely old dog without a master. _Seven hells, I might as well leave and forget tonight ever happened._ But he was all too aware that such a thing would never happen.

Glancing over toward the front gates, Sandor was taken aback to see a sleek black car sliding through them, barely making a sound across the gravel as it moved. He wondered who could be arriving at such a late hour; the party was all but over, and the guests would be leaving soon. _All the more reason to make myself scarce._

The vehicle stopped before the steps to the mansion, tyres screeching softly to a halt. Sandor watched from his vantage point in the shadows as the doors opened, and two men stepped out.

One new recognised almost instantly. Twyin Lannister was never a man to observe such trivial details as time, and Sandor was not surprised to see he had turned up to his daughter's event four hours behind schedule. But the other man was harder to determine in the half-light thrown from the big house, lumbering torturously slowly out of the car. He rose to his feet, up...  
and up... and up... until he seemed to block out the moonlight on the horizon.

Sandor regarded his brother in a moment of silent loathing. He thought of the fire, and of his face, and Sansa Stark's blank expression as she took in Gregor Clegane's handiwork.

And then Sandor stepped forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cue cliffhanger noise* 
> 
> I'm honestly not sure about this one anymore. I enjoy writing it, but I don't know... Now it just seems like a stupid idea. But carry on I must.
> 
> What will happen next? [Even I don't know the answer yet ;D] Well, it's SanSan after all. Some closure needs to happen, and soon. [Very soon. With kisses.]
> 
> Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment if you would ;3


	11. Reconciliation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The little bird meets a stranger, and some familiar faces as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caution: Fluff and cuteness. Prepare for toothache.

Debutante CH 11  
[SANSA's POV]

She had barely reached the front door when she walked head-first into what felt like a brick wall. 

"Ow..." She muttered, her hand flying to her temples.

The brick wall grunted, and Sansa looked upward, taking in a broad chest, heavily muscled even through the dark shirt he wore. For a moment, she thought it was him. 

But the man was too tall, the crown of his head brushing the top if the enormous door frame, and she took a startled step back, away from the gigantic stranger with an overwhelming sense of foreboding.

Behind him, another shadow shifted, and a second man stepped through the doorway behind the giant, mouth pressed into a thin line of disapproval as he sauntered past. Sansa knew him instantly; Tywin Lannister, business tycoon and Joffrey's grandfather. _Gods, I hope he doesn't recognise me._ Mr Lannister frightened her, with his cold green eyes. Thankfully, though, he didn't give her so much as a second glance as he walked toward the ballroom, not looking back to see if his enormous companion was following.

He wasn't, much to Sansa's dismay. The giant was looking down at her with a blank expression, completely still save the faint frown of irritation on his broad mouth.

"Watch where you're going, _girl_." The man rumbled at her,with a voice like a rockfall. Sansa averted her eyes, staring down at her silver shoes. _He'll go away soon._ It was all she could hope for as she mumbled a reply.

"Oh, I'm sorry." Her voice sounded dangerously similar to a mouse being stepped on. Sansa gulped,waiting for the hulking shadow to move along. He did not.

"What's a thing like you doing all alone?" The man asked, his voice expressionless, but his eyes roving over her in the dim light. Dread rose up like a grey tide in her stomach, and Sansa took a step backward. 

"I-I was just getting some fresh air." She managed, retreating another step. "But I'm feeling a little better now. I should be getting back-"

The shadow matched her steps with his own, towering over her in the echoing, empty hall. He said nothing,just looked at her with a strange light of enjoyment in his eyes. The man was enjoying her fear, and Sansa knew it.

"Take another step," a hoarse voice rasped from the doorway, "and it'll be the last you ever make."

The huge man turned slowly, and Sansa glimpsed, for a fleeting moment,the Hound standing in the open doorway. His features were cold and still as stone, and a shadow fell across the good side of his face. He seemed menacing as he glared at the other man, but Sansa felt her heart lift in her chest.

"What are _you_ , doing here?" The stranger asked, his voice betraying a hint of annoyance. The Hound threw him a twisted grin, one that pulled at his scars.

"I could ask you the same question." He growled. "Now, _step away_ from the girl and get going. I'm sure your master will be looking for his bitch soon enough."

The huge man bristled at that, his taut muscles flexing and tightening at the insult, but to Sansa's sheer relief, another voice sounded from the hallway.

"Come along, Clegane." Tywin Lannister called in irritation. _Why is he calling the Hound?_ She watched in confused silence as the giant lumbered away, answering his summons. 

The two of them were now alone in the hall, exchanging silent glances of apprehension.

The Hound was the first to break it. "I see you've met my dear brother." He said with a bitter laugh. Sansa was confused, and it must have shown on her face.

"That man was your-"

"Brother, yes." His voice had become a hoarse murmur, but it carried across the quiet room without difficulty. "Gregor Clegane."

 _Clegane._ That was how Sansa knew the name; her father had often spoken about Tywin Lannister hiring a man named Gregor Clegane as his bodyguard, despite rumours that the man had killed several innocent people. A shudder ran down her spine at the knowledge she had been so close to an man like that, without knowing. _No wonder I felt so apprehensive._ She silently thanked the gods that the Hound had been there.

"I've him to thank for this." The Hound told her, gesturing roughly to his face with more than a hint of fury.

"What happened?" She asked,her voice a mere whisper. She saw his mouth twitch, as though trying to fight something he desperately wanted to say.

"Another time, maybe." He rasped finally, taking a tentative step inside the house. Sansa was surprised by his caution. _Has he forgotten the fact that we spent all night talking?_ The idea saddened her, but it made her angry as well.

"Why did you go off like that?" She demanded, before she could stop herself. Sansa flinched at the sound of her own voice; it sounded sharp, and too concerned. 

He made no answer. She suppressed the urge to sigh heavily.

"Did... did I do something wrong?" Sansa asked, the words small and weak. Over in the shadow of the front doors, she heard the Hound exhale in a shaking breath.

"No, little bird." The Hound answered. "You didn't do _anything_. That's why I left."

She didn't understand. "What?"

Another sigh. "If you'd been horrified at the sight of me, at least I'd have known how you felt. But you didn't say anything, and I didn't know what was going through that mind of yours. And I couldn't stay there, not knowing."

There was a silence as Sansa regarded those words. _He was afraid of what I thought._ No one had ever paid any heed to her opinion before; she was just a silly girl beyond their care. She felt a warm rush of affection rush through her then, but she did what she could to maintain her composure. _Better to gauge his reaction first._

"Did you expect me to be 'horrified'?" She asked quietly, her voice thankfully calm as still water. She saw the man falter, his ruined brow furrowing even in the half-light. 

"Well... Yes."

Sansa allowed herself a soft laugh, watching the Hound tense at the noise. She stepped forward, feeling the silken skirts brush her ankles as she did so. _Did he think me so naïve?_ In the dark, her hand found his burned cheek, the roughness strange against her smooth palm, but oddly pleasant.

"My poor sad Hound." She murmured, feeling him freeze beneath her touch, waiting. "You could never horrify me."

A sound between a sigh and a groan left the man's mouth at that, and Sansa could feel his warm breath on her face, her neck, the top of her chest. She shivered.

"Please, little bird." His voice was a hoarse whisper. It seemed almost pained. "You don't have to lie. Not to me."

She traced the line of a scar, her thumb brushing over the ridge gently. She remembered something her father told her brother Robb once, when he had fallen off his bike and needed stitches in his leg. _'Scars are signs of strength. They show you were stronger than whatever hurt you._ '. By that reasoning, the Hound was very strong indeed. Sansa smiled.

"I'm not lying." She answered simply. "Surely you can tell? You can smell a lie, after all."

A silence. 

The man barked a hoarse laugh, the sound reverberating through her hand and down her arms. "You're a cruel little bird, you know that?" He growled at her, still laughing. It seemed like sheer relief laced every chuckle, but Sansa suspected he doubted her words still. "Using my own words against me."

Sansa grinned despite herself. The darkness and silence rendered her bold. "Silence me, then." She whispered, pressing her lips to his.

He groaned low, and suddenly, so suddenly the breath left her lungs, Sansa felt herself be pressed against the wall behind them, as the man's mouth peppered her in hot, hungry kisses. He roved over her mouth, her cheeks, and began trailing down her neck greedily, finding her pulse, leaving her utterly speechless, thoughts melting away to nothing. A contented sigh left her parted lips, and an answering growl rumbled through her neck.

"Little Bird." The Hound rasped against her skin. "Sansa."

Her name left his lips like a fervent prayer, and Sansa let a hand entwine through his hair,holding him against her neck. It was hardly proper, she knew. No _lady_ would be pressed up against the wall, being kissed by a man she'd met that very night and enjoying every moment of it. _But, oh, I don't care._

Smiling, Sansa tried to speak, her voice a breathy panting that would have made her mother shocked. "Your... your name." She couldn't even form her words. "You still haven't told me."

His lips found her collarbone, deliciously rough against the soft skin. "Sandor." He growled, resuming his ministrations. 

The name suited him, in her opinion. "Sandor." She repeated breathlessly. "I like that name."

She started when she felt the pressure of his hand on her calf,forcing one leg to bend beneath her as he pushed the material of her dress higher. _Someone could walk in._ Somehow, that only made it better.

"You like my name?" She gave a nod in response."Good." The man rasped, looking up with a wicked smile. "Because I'm going to make you scream it."

She made no complaint, letting her eyes close as she leant her head back. How their conversation had got to this point, she couldn't remember, but she was immensely grateful.

A babble of noise erupted suddenly in the silence,as the ballroom doors opened, and a flood of guests exited. The two of them sprang apart, breathing heavily, brushing down their clothes with as much composure as they could achieve. Thankfully, the low light had hidden them, but the discovery of the two of them could have been awkward to say the least.

"Gods." Sandor muttered, his chest heaving noticeably as he watched the guests go past, making for the front door. "I suppose you'll be leaving too?"

Sansa was still dazed from their encounter, and it took her a few moments to think coherently. "I... I think so." Aching disappointment washed over her. "Maybe... Maybe my parents would let me stay. I could think of something-"

A heavy hand rested on her shoulder, and she almost cried out. "There you are, Sansa." 

Robb was standing behind her, smiling warmly. "Mum's looking for you. We're heading off soon."

Sansa offered him her best smile. "Alright, Robb. I'll be there in a minute."

Her brother nodded, giving Sandor an uncertain grin. "Okay. Don't be long."

Once he'd disappeared, she looked back at the Hound, who was watching her with a dark expression. "You could stay with me." He offered with a wry grin. "I wouldn't mind sharing a bed."

She gave him a look of mock disapproval, the sadness at the thought of leaving still raw. "My family are expecting me."

He nodded once, though his eyes seemed disheartened. "I know." He reached out,touching a tendril of hair that fell alongside her jaw. "Will I see you again?"

"Yes." She answered without a second thought. "Somehow. I can visit King's Landing as often as I want, I'm a woman grown."

An idea struck her then, and she almost laughed aloud at the thought. She clapped her hands together instead, making Sandor raise his brows.

"What?"

She gave him a grin. "You'll be seeing me again, Sandor Clegane. Very soon, in fact." Sansa stepped forward. "Until then."

The kiss she planted on his cheek was feather-soft against the scars. He sighed at the contact, a sound of longing and lust and utter wanting.

"Until then, Little Bird."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it looks like that's the end for our little lovebirds' night of romance. How cruel I am!
> 
> But worry not. I have a plan, friends. Read back and you might just find I have left an opportunity for another 'chance' meeting. Be patient with me... You might just find you like what I have in mind ;3
> 
> Oh,and there are more conclusions to be made. Gendrya, for one thing. And we haven't heard much from Cat and Ned, have we? Two more chapters to go, dearies. A lot can happen in two chapters.
> 
> PS. I know this is a short one, and quite sudden. I blame the weather. I am currently in Spain. There's this thing in the sky, it's big and yellow and I've never seen it at home in Britain. I think it's called the Sun XD [forgive my sarcasm]


	12. Farewells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry says his goodbyes to his new-found friend, and Arya finds herself shocked by someone she least expects.

[GENDRY'S POV]

They completed their cleaning in an awkward silence. Arya had her eyes planted firmly on the floor as she went about her task,while Gendry leaned against the countertops in thought. _Damn Hot Pie and his stupid comments._ Everything had been fine until his friend suggested there was some sort of romantic tension between them both. _Ridiculous._

He stole a glance over at Arya, who had just finished cleaning the floor. She wasn't the type of girl he'd normally have any interest in; short, skinny, and bad-tempered. So why would Hot Pie think that he _liked_ her in that way? It was utterly confusing.

" _What_ is it now?" Arya demanded, dragging him suddenly from his reflections. Gendry gave a start; he'd been staring at her without realising. 

"Nothing." He muttered, eyes dropping to the floor. _Get a grip, you idiot._ "We're done with the cleaning; I need to go find Mr Baratheon for the money we're owed." That was another mystery; why the man had agreed to pay them after he and Hot Pie took part in a cake fight in his kitchen. But he would put that on the back burner for now, too engrossed in observing Arya for some unknown reason.

"I'm probably going soon anyway." She mumbled, standing up and following him to the door with a familiar crease between her eyebrows. _Familiar?_ Gendry's mind scolded itself sharply. _You met her tonight, fool._ What in seven hells was wrong with him?

"I never asked you where you lived." Gendry said, holding the door for her to step through. Arya threw him a wary glance. 

"What does it matter?" She asked, a little too quickly for it to have been a casual question. He faltered; how had he offended her this time?

"I just meant it never came up, that's all." Gendry attempted a shrug of nonchalance, but it seemed more like a nervous twitch. He cringed inwardly as they made for the ballroom doors. "No need to snap at me."

There was a little pause between them . "Sorry." Arya concluded finally,her voice reluctant. "I live in Winterfell."

_Winterfell._ The town was hours northward, and disappointment descended in his stomach like a lead weight. It bemused him greatly, yet Gendry had to admit that he wished she didn't live so far from King's Landing. It would make it difficult to see her again. _Wait; why would I want to see her again?_ Arya's company had been a pleasant addition to what would otherwise have been a very tedious evening, but he had only met her a few hours before. As a rule, he shouldn't have cared about the fact that she was leaving soon, but Arya Stark had proved an exception more than once.

They had reached the ballroom by now, and Gendry realised how late the night had grown in their absence. Half the guests had already left, and the room seemed a different world altogether; the light seemed colder without the sheer amount of people within it, and the food tables looked forlorn void of delicacies as they were. But what bothered him most was the fact that the girl beside him was silent, arms folded and avoiding his gaze however possible.

"Look," he spoke up, eager to end the prickly silence, "if what Hot Pie said is bothering you-"

Gendry never got the chance to finish that sentence; grey eyes met his, narrowed in a frustration he couldn't fathom. 

"It wasn't what _Hot Pie_ said." Arya retorted heatedly. "It was what _you_ said. About this all being a joke." She bit her lip then, seemingly ashamed for having admitted what she was thinking. Gendry merely stared at her, dumbfounded once again. It seemed to be occurring a lot that evening.

"I thought you were embarrassed." He managed, confusion mounting. _Did she actually want there to be something between them?_ It was impossible. It had to be. "You said I wasn't your type."

Arya looked down at the floor, still gnawing at her lip. He found himself staring again. "Why do I need a 'type'?" She muttered, just loud enough for him to hear. "Maybe I just _like_ you."

That silenced him for good. He looked down at the girl, scrutinising her with his eyes, searching for some lie or attempt at bad humour in her face. She stared stubbornly back, with eyes of wolf grey, brighter without the confines of the mask. In the end, when he made no response, Arya heaved a sigh.

"Forget I said anything." She said, averting her gaze once more, looking around the room for someone. _Her family._ "Have a nice life, Gendry Waters."

Arya made to walk away, but she didn't have the chance to move so much as an inch, Gendry's hand holding her back by the wrist. She looked up at him, surprised and silent for once, and he took that as an opportunity.

"Maybe I like you too." He managed, with a half-smile. It should have made him seem nonchalant, but the young man highly suspected it looked like a grimace. The dark eyes widened, and he felt sure he would drown in them. _Focus._ "Maybe I could give you my number. Y'know... if you want."

Arya blinked, silent, and he felt certain that he had somehow misunderstood her words. _Maybe she meant she liked you as a friend, idiot._ His mind scolded sharply. Gendry felt the sudden urge to run off the Baratheons' balcony in his shame.

"Okay."

The single word was enough to make him expel a shuddering breath, relieved. Arya gave him her sharp-toothed grin, but he noted that it seemed a little less mischievous, as close to shyness as she could possibly be. It made him oddly confident. 

Reaching into his pocket for a pen, finding one by some fortunate miracle, he scrawled his phone number hurriedly onto Arya's hand, the digits barely legible in his haste. _It's not like I give my number out a lot._ He wondered vaguely what Hot Pie would think of him giving Arya Stark his number. There would be some sort of victorious smile involved, he knew.

"I guess I'll call you then." Arya said, raising a dark brow at him, her shyness apparently forgotten. It was a little disappointing; he had to admit how much he liked her all flustered.

"I guess you will." A thought struck him then, and Gendry was taken aback by his own daring. But the moment was too good to pass up. "Is your dad here?"

A frown settled on her features then, as she looked hastily around the room. "No. Why?"

The word was half-muffles by Gendry's lips as they captured her own in one fleeting gesture. He almost smiled as he noticed Arya's shoulders stiffen in shock, before relaxing ever so slightly. _Let's see if she keeps her composure now._

"I just didn't want him to see me do that." Gendry explained when he pulled away, a little breathless. "I didn't want to get punched in the face." Arya merely nodded, her cheeks pinking. 

"Oh... um... right."

From somewhere across the room, a faint voice seemed to be calling her name. The young woman looked back, craning her neck to see where the source of the noise was. "It's my mother." She said, looking back to Gendry. Her face was still red. "I should probably go."

He gave a nod, silently enjoying her sudden embarrassment. "I guess you should." He admitted with a small smile. "But if you don't call me by the end of the week, I'll be sure to find your house number in the phone book and leave a message for your whole family to hear. Deal?"

Arya narrowed her eyes at him. "Is that a threat?"

"A promise." Gendry winked at her, and she rolled her eyes, unable to stop the corners of her mouth from twitching.

"Fine. Deal." She turned toward the side of the room where her mother had been standing, looking back over her shoulder at him. "Bye, Gendry."

"Bye."

He watched her go, utterly certain that he would not regret the evening after all.

 

[ARYA'S POV]

Her lips were still warm where Gendry's had touched them. _Gods, Arya, get a grip._ She was pressing through the crowd toward her mother, thankful that Catelyn had not noticed the exchange. It would only cue a flurry of questions, and Arya did not feel like answering them at that moment.

Her face was hot, and she _knew_ she was blushing, but she found it almost pleasant. It had been her first kiss, and she'd enjoyed it more than she thought she ever would. _Maybe Sansa has a point with all those romance stories,_ she thought vaguely as she made for the doors. But she was _certainly_ never going to tell her sister that.

As though on cue, in the corner of her eye, Arya was suddenly aware of a flash of purple. Her eyes turned to follow it, latching onto a pair of blue eyes. Sansa was watching her with one auburn brow raised, and it was clear she'd seen everything. _Bloody hells._ She merely glared in response as her sister walked over, her skirts swishing around her ankles.

"Who was that guy you were kissing?" Sansa asked with a wry smile. Arya frowned up at her, arms folding against her chest.

"I could ask the same of you." The younger girl retorted, earning a a sobering glance from the redhead. Arya vaguely wondered where the tall man had gone, but she didn't ask.

" _Touché_ ," said Sansa reluctantly. "Well, a lady doesn't kiss and tell." She leaned in a little closer, and gave Arya a wink. "And I'll keep quiet if you will."

_What the hells has gotten into her?_ The two girls were always at odds, and would usually relish the notion of blackmailing the other. Whatever the change was, Arya liked it. She returned Sansa's smile. "Sounds good to me."

Their mother had reached them by then, looking a little flustered, her cheeks red with the warmth of the room. 'There you girls are. I've been looking for you everywhere! Where have the two of you been _doing_ all night?"

Two pairs of eyes grazed each other for a split second, grey meeting blue. "Nothing." Arya and Sansa chorused, earning a sceptical look from Catelyn.

"Hmm." Their mother mused, narrowing her gaze at the two of them. Arya simply started back, hoping her sister's eyes wouldn't give the game away. _She was always a terrible liar._

Sansa must have played the part well enough, however, for Cat gave a soft sigh. "Fine. Well, the car's waiting outside. Have you said goodbye to the Baratheons yet?"

"Yes." Arya lied. She would be avoiding Cersei at all costs for what remained of the night. So far, it appeared Catelyn knew nothing of the cake fight, and she wanted to keep it that way. Beside her, even Sansa nodded, the motion surprisingly convincing.

"Alright." Cat said with a small smile. "Out you go, then. And would you check the car for any uninvited guests? I wouldn't put it past him to try and sneak a girl back to Winterfell with us."

Stifling a laugh, the two girls left their mother in the ballroom, making for the front doors. Their steps echoed through the hall, now deserted, but Arya couldn't help but note Sansa's eyes darting around, as though searching the shadows for someone. It wasn't hard to guess who.

"Did you give him your number?" Arya asked quietly, wondering if she would be seeing that particular man sometime soon. _I still owe him a piece of my mind, the asshole._

Her sister frowned, though the expression still managed to be pretty. "No. Do you think I should have?"

They reached the doors, stepping out into the crisp night air. Sure enough, the car was waiting beneath the steps, and Arya could faintly make out the shape of her brother sitting within it. _No girls in sight, thank the gods._

"I don't know." She admitted with a shrug as they made for the vehicle. Sansa sighed in response.

"Well... I might have a plan in mind. We'll see how things go." She gave Arya a coy smile, which surprised her yet again.

"Huh. You should play the _femme fatale_ more often, dear sister." Arya grinned at her as she opened the door. "It suits you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, a little Gendrya chapter for you all. Aren't they just adorably awkward?
> 
> One chapter left! You're probably wondering how I can be so cruel to leave you all hanging like that. Well, a lot can happen in a single chapter, dear friends, so you'll have to wait and see.


	13. Conclusions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned learns that little escapes his wife's notice, especially where their children are concerned.

[CATELYN'S POV]

Cat wondered vaguely when exactly everyone in her family started lying to her. 

Sansa, Arya and Robb had been mysteriously unavailable all evening, her daughters had blatantly lied to her face, and to top it all off, her husband was keeping something from her too.

He stood beside her as they said their goodbyes to a now utterly intoxicated Robert Baratheon. Ned's face was a smooth mask of good humour, but Catelyn saw through it immediately. A muscle in the corner of his mouth gave him away, twitching irritably. Part of her wanted to comfort this veiled agitation. But, mostly, she wanted the truth. _And I'll get it from him, make no mistake about that._

"So good to see you, Ned." Robert slurred as he shook his friend's hand clumsily. The host's unfocused eyes turned to her. "And Cat, lovely as ever! You haven't aged a day."

She laughed at that, knowing full well there were several lines on her face that would argue otherwise. Robert kissed her cheek, stumbling slightly as he pulled away. _The poor sot,_ Cat thought to herself as she regarded the drunk man. _If I was married to a Lannister, I'd never be sober either._

"Thank you for inviting us, Robert." She said with a smile. "I'm sure Ned told you about our plans for Sansa's birthday. You really must come."

"Ah yes." Robert said, hiccuping. "I'll be glad to go. Just be sure to keep the birthday cake away from your other girl, eh, Ned?" The man clapped her husband on the shoulder with a grin, and Cat looked at Ned with a raised brow. The grey eyes flickered to hers hesitantly.

"Cake?" Cat repeated, so softly only he could hear. "And _Arya_?"

"Later." Ned murmured, while Robert prattled on. 

"Speaking of which, where's that blasted boy gotten to? I promised him his money. Ah, there!" He was looking over at one of the waiters, standing nearby. The young man started at the sound of Robert's booming voice, but approached as the host beckoned. _Something about him is familiar._ But she couldn't quite place it.

"Well, it's been great to see you, Robert." Ned was saying, pulling Catelyn a little closer. "But we'd best be off. We've left Old Nan with the boys, and I don't want to trouble her for too long."

Robert smiled at them both through his tangle of dark beard. "Of course, of course. Good to see you both! I'll expect an invitation to this shindig of yours sometime soon, then."

With a few more goodbyes, Ned had pulled her away from Robert Baratheon, making for the door in long strides, but Cat would not be silenced.

"What the hells is going on, Ned?" She demanded heatedly as they walked to the front door. "What did Robert mean about Arya?"

Her husband sighed heavily, averting his eyes. "Oh, it was nothing really. Arya was just messing around as usual, she got into a cake fight with some boys-"

Cat stopped dead. "A _cake_ fight?" She repeated shrilly, until Ned shushed her. "In someone else's house? Oh, that girl will turn me grey one of these days, I swear it."

Ned looked down at his wife with doleful eyes. "Don't be too hard on her, Cat. It's late now, we'd best be going."

The woman wouldn't budge. "And what else are you hiding?"

"Hiding?"

"Yes. Something's bothering you. Spit it out."

Ned sighed. "I saw Sansa... with a man. I don't know who he was, didn't see his face. But he was older than her."

Cat's eyes widened. " _Sansa_? With a man? Doing what, exactly?"

"I don't know. But I don't like it, Cat."

Neither did she, and yet Catelyn refused to think her daughter would have dons anything silly. Sansa was a good girl. "Hmm. I wonder when you were thinking of telling me all this?"

Ned gave her a surprised glance, clearly at a loss as to how the conversation was turned back on him. "I... I would have told you _eventually_..."

"Is that right?" Cat regarded him coldly, silently enjoying the penitent look on her husband's grave face. She thought about teasing him more, but soon decided against it. "Well, perhaps I'll have to interrogate you later, see if you're hiding anything else." She lent him a wink, half hidden in the shadows. Ned gave a soft sigh of relief, and walked beside her to the door, traipsing down the steps to the waiting car.

"We'd better get going." She commented as she reached for the door of the vehicle. "Old Nan's likely fallen asleep. I'm praying Rickon hasn't burnt the house down while we were out."

Ned chuckled at that, ducking inside the car. "Aye, I wouldn't put it past him."

The thought of her children reminded Cat of the scolding she was going to give her daughters. But when she slid into her seat, she was silenced by the sight of her three eldest children, all young adults, fast asleep in the backseat and leaning against each other. She and Ned exchanged an amused glance.

Her mother's instinct picked up on several little details she was determined to question them about in the morning. Robb had lipstick stains on his crisp white collar, mouth lolling open like a small child as he slumped against the tinted window beside him. In the middle seat, Arya had a phone number scrawled across her hand, which she used to rub her nose in her sleep. And next to her, Sansa's light perfume reached Cat's detection, faintly mingled with what smelled like men's cologne. _Did they honestly think they could hide from their mother?_

"Should we wake them?" Ned asked quietly from the driver's seat. 

"No." Cat decided with a smile, her initial anger ebbing away. "This is the longest they've ever been without arguing. We'll leave them be."

She turned and met her husband's eyes, raising a brow expectantly as she leaned back in the seat.

"Take me home, Eddard Stark."

*****Some Weeks Later*****

[SANDOR'S POV]

_I should have asked for her bloody number._

He berated himself with that thought for what had to be the hundredth time since the night of the Baratheon fundraiser. She had told him they'd be seeing each other soon, but weeks had gone by without so much as a word. 

Sandor began to wonder whether the little bird had changed her mind. Perhaps the clear light of day had made her realise how truly mad she had been to look past his face, that he was a _stranger_ for all she knew. Perhaps she regretted ever having met him. The thought was like a knife to the chest.

He'd confided in the Elder Brother in the meantime,and the monk had given him an answer as to how to proceed.

"Wait." He'd told Sandor. "Patience truly is a virtue. If you give this woman some time, you might find she _does_ contact you. If not, the gods will show you the way forward."

_I wish they'd hurry the fuck up about it, then._ He was sitting outside Robert Baratheon's office, having been summoned there that afternoon. His boss was currently on the phone to some business partner or other, and Sandor was reduced to waiting outside the door like an obedient dog. 

He didn't like sitting idle; it only made him think of Sansa Stark. The way she smiled at him, the way she kissed him, the way her bare skin felt as he hitched up the skirt of her dress, only for a moment, like pale silk. No, he would push _that_ thought away. The chair was uncomfortable enough without his trousers growing any tighter. 

Joffrey had been insufferable ever since the party, unaware of the second meeting that had taken place between Sansa and her Hound. He'd taken to mocking Sandor at every opportune moment, though thankfully not when either of his parents were around.

"I don't blame you, dog." The young man had told him that very morning, a smirk on his worm lips. "You didn't _know_ she was one of the Stark brats. I can see why you'd want to have her, but unfortunately I don't think she was all that keen on letting you."

_The little shit might be right after all._ Sandor thought bitterly as he stared at the office door. _The little bird's flown away to her nest, away from the Hound. And she isn't coming back._

Sudden footsteps from beyond the panel alerted him from his sombre reflections, and Sandor stood just as the door to the office swung open, revealing Robert Baratheon's portly frame. He was sober for once, and Sandor didn't know if that was a good or bad sign.

"Ah, Clegane. Come in." The billionaire walked back to his desk, seating himself in the swivel chair. He followed reluctantly, closing the door behind them and taking the seat opposite.

"The mail just arrived." Robert told him with an unreadable expression. "And with it came this."

He gestured with bloated fingers to an envelope lying between them on the desk. It was silver in colour, and it had been opened. Sandor merely looked at it, then back to his boss, waiting for whatever was coming.

"Well?" Robert asked gruffly. " _Read_ the buggering thing, then."

Slowly, unsure as to what the hells was happening, Sandor picked up the envelope, pulling the contents from it as gently as he could. All the while, his boss watched him carefully, something the tall man was uncomfortably aware of as he tried to read the card in his hand. It was expensive-looking, printed in gold cursive. He frowned at the sight of it.

"It's an invitation." Mr Baratheon explained, the chair squeaking slightly as he leaned back in it. "From my good friend Ned Stark. They're throwing a party, and my family were all kindly invited."

Sandor felt himself tense at that. _The little bird's birthday, or her sister's?_ He kept his gaze passive, however, as he looked back at Robert.

"What the hells does that have to do with me?" He rasped, a little too harshly, but his boss merely smiled, gesturing back to the invite.

"Read it."

He did as he was bid, clenching his jaw in an effort to retain what little patience remained to him that day. 

As his eyes scanned the paper, he felt his heartbeat still for a moment. A party in honour of Miss Sansa Stark's twentieth birthday, to be held at their home in Winterfell. _The little bird is not so little any more._ The thought made him want to laugh bitterly.

"Some girl's birthday." He mused, putting down the card with an irritated motion. "What of it?"

Robert fixed him with an interested gaze. "Do you know Sansa Stark at all, Clegane?"

_I talked to her for hours. I kissed her. I would have fucked her up against your wall if we weren't interrupted._ "Can't say I do."

"She was at the fundraiser a few weeks ago." Mr Baratheon seemed almost expectant, and Sandor immediately was put on guard. "You might have seen her."

"Maybe I did." He rasped in reply, wishing to steer clear of any mention of the little bird. "There were a lot of people there that night. Don't remember her though."

Robert nodded once at that. "Read on."

With a small growl of exasperation, Sandor picked up the invite _again_ , reading a little further. There were names printed on the metallic card, in the same gold font. Robert Baratheon, Cersei Lannister, Joffrey Baratheon. _What a pleasant birthday she'll be having,_ he thought sarcastically. Even Myrcella and Tommen had been invited.

It was then that Sandor saw the reason he had been called in to the office. Where the list of invitees ended, someone had added a name in neat purple handwriting.

' _And Sandor Clegane._ '

"What do you make of that, Clegane?" Robert Baratheon asked him, face emotionless. Sandor looked up at him, his thoughts far away from that little room.

_"You'll be seeing me again, Sandor Clegane."_ She had told him, the night they met. The night she left. _"Very soon, in fact."_

_Sly little bird._

Sandor threw back his head and laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End
> 
>  
> 
> _Or is it?_
> 
>  
> 
> [*cough cough Sequel cough cough*]

**Author's Note:**

> There are several inaccuracies in here, I know. E.g, King's Landing is meant to be ages away from Winterfell. But I hope you guys are okay with it, within the parameters of this story (I'm too lazy to think of a way around it).


End file.
